


Young Lions

by El_Nino1



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Metal Gear, Super Smash Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Real World, Child Soldiers, Crossover, Established Relationship, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Other, Real Life, Recovery, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:33:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 51,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25675894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/El_Nino1/pseuds/El_Nino1
Summary: "Before we were rockstars, we were orphans - every single one of us."
Relationships: Marth/Roy (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A crosspost from ff.net. This fic was on a five year hiatus between chapter 3 and 4. The decision to resume it was made recently. We'll see where it goes. Thanks for reading.

_if we're never together  
_ _if i'm never back again  
_ _well i swear to god that i'll love you forever  
_ _evelyn i'm not coming home tonight_

\- Against Me!

* * *

"Pints of Guinness Make You Strong"

* * *

Roy's dreams sent him crashing through the dark some days. Summers were warm here, a muggy thickness that hung damp in the air, weighing heavy on his chest as he lay in bed. He worked long hours on the graveyard shift, couldn't afford to have insomnia. But ghosts from the past always found him in sleep. Sometimes he woke reaching for the hand of a father he could never touch. Other times he woke swinging fists into the wall. The plastic covering of the mattress would stick to his skin, the fabric bed sheet having slipped off with his thrashing.

He went to bed at ten in the morning and was always wide awake by two in the afternoon, staring at the glowing screen of his phone in the shuttered dark of his room. The only messages he got were from creditors.

Friday was his day off. The sale of the dojo had closed. The only thing left to do now was head downtown, where he could pawn off the remnants of his family's dream to a martial arts supply store.

By the end of the day, Roy had cash in his pockets and time to kill. The pubs were open; he was feeling brand new. He had been breaking promises for years, what was one more?

So that was how he found himself, quite honorably, throwing up next to a dumpster in the back alley behind a bar at 2 AM, nursing a swollen cheek and a busted lip. He'd already lost count of the number of places he'd been thrown out of.

_Funny how your mouth got your ass into more trouble than your fists._

In another time and place, he would have found something better. He used to hate spending his nights alone, used to go out looking for someone to take home.

_But the last time that happened, you ended up with his name tattooed on your chest. He could read it in reverse in the bathroom mirror if you had him bent over far enough on the counter. Hated how quiet he was, but if you were doing it right, he'd brace one hand against the misted glass, eyes meeting yours in the reflection through a veil of dark bangs, a look that made your stomach clench tight because it was the only time he ever looked at you as if anything you were doing actually mattered._

_You didn't want his respect, or equality, you wanted his submission._

_Rivalries laced with lust are bittersweet that way. They come with a comforting whiskey burn. It punishes you on the way down._

Roy pressed his forehead to the concrete wall, thought about bashing his skull open on it.

One more promise. What did it matter now?

"Looks like you're having a productive night."

He knew that voice. Roy turned around, staggering with the motion, his world lost in the vertigo for a moment before all the pieces settled into place.

"Wha' chu sayin, gramps? It's fucking beautiful out here." That was the drunk within, talking. Roy patted his pockets until he found cigarettes. "But if you're gonna interrupt a guy's business, you oughta at least help him with a light."

A flame flickered to life before him. Roy leaned in with the stick between his lips, inhaled and watched it catch.

"Throwing up is 'business' now?"

"Shut up, Snake."

The man in question shook his head. His eyes slid to the right, to the piled up mess beside the dumpster. "Are they dead?"

"No." Roy counted three pairs of shoes attached to legs. Might have been a fourth hiding underneath his buddies. Roy wasn't too sure. "Or - fuck, maybe? I don't know. You wanna check?"

There was blood on his knuckles. Couldn't recall how it got there.

Fucking hepatitis B. He was gonna get it one day, for sure. Or the goddamn dysentery. He was pretty sure that was how people got dysentery. Fighting with other piss-drunk losers behind a bar.

Snake, good fucking Samaritan Snake, did check to see if they were dead. They must not have been, 'cause when he got up, he didn't seem none too impressed.

"Roy."

"Hm?"

"Have you ever tried not being the master of disaster?"

"Is that a serious question?"

Roughly ten minutes later, they were at a 24 hour gas station, and Roy was emptying his bladder into the world's most disgusting toilet. He had no clue how they got there. When he left the restroom, he was yelling about health code violations.

"You all tryin' ta give people dysentery, or something?"

The old man behind the counter told Roy where he could stick his opinions, and Roy jumped at him, only to be knock down by a bullet-proof glass barrier several inches thick. Snake dragged him out the door. The little bell attached to the door jingled.

"Thanks, Chen." Snake seemed to know the guy.

"Next time, keep the garbage outside!"

"Fuck you!" Roy shouted. "You and your dysentery!"

Two minutes - or maybe twenty minutes - later, Roy was cradling his head over a cup of black coffee and a plate of bacon he didn't remember ordering. Seriously, who ordered a plate of nothing but bacon? Someone had taken a bite out of each strip and arranged the pieces so that they spelled out his name.

The diner ran all night. Only a few other tables were occupied. Weird to have the place so quiet on a Friday night. All the bars and clubs tended to empty out into the diners; that was how shit worked in Roy's world.

"Was gonna ask how you've been," Snake said, "but it looks like I already have the answer."

"Does it bother you that your voice sounds like a bag of rocks trying to fuck itself?"

"I'm sure that sounded funnier in your head."

"You should stop smoking. Who ordered all this bacon?"

"You did."

"Seriously? Game & Watch works here?" Roy took a piece of bacon off the plate and started nibbling on it.

Snake nodded calmly, as if the noise coming out of Roy's mouth made perfect sense.

"You got work, Roy? Money to pay the bills?"

"Yeah, I got work."

"Doing what?"

"Electronics. It's totally legit this time."

"Pays the rent?"

Roy shrugged. He pulled out a small hard-case object, about the size of a phone, and set it down on the table. "We make these."

Snake picked it up and examined it.

"What is it?"

"You play games on it, you idiot."

"Most phones can do that too."

Roy snatched it back. "Yeah, whatever."

His job was an assembly line position. The doctors said that it was the root cause of the chronic pain in his hands. He took painkillers for it. Of course, alcohol worked just as well. They had suggested that he find a job that didn't involve fine motor hand manipulations. But he'd never heard of a job that didn't involve use of the hands.

No matter what the job, work always wore down some part of the body.

"I see."

"Yeah, you see."

"Nothing ever changes for you, does it?"

"What are you, my therapist?"

"You're still stuck in the past. You can't let go of it."

All Roy could do was let out a bitter laugh. "The fuck do you know about it? Huh? Such a fucking tough guy. Big man. Soldier. You beat all your enemies, right? You work for politicians in powerful countries, playing the little guys like puppets. You go into any place and stir up trouble. If there's a tyrant you got in your pocket, you keep him in power. To hell with the people he's got locked up in the dungeons. If he's not your guy, you raise a rebellion against him. You go in and promise people you'll help them stand up, but when the war really heats up, you lose your balls and bail the fuck out, tail between your legs, to hell with your fucking allies. Guys like you just piss me off. You're not a fucking hero, not even a tough guy. Guys like you are two-faced cowards. The fuck do you know about my fucking past?"

Something flickered in the old soldier's eyes, something dangerous, and if he had jumped up and clocked Roy in that moment, Roy would have known what it meant, that the words had hit, had hurt. Roy would have claimed victory in that case, even if it'd earned him a concussion.

But Snake didn't move for a while. Finally, he said, "I knew your father, Roy. I knew your mother too."

"You abandoned them, their countries, and their cause, so it don't matter what you think you know. You're not entitled to jack shit from me."

"Those are big words coming from someone who's never been tested." Snake's voice didn't rise. Its tone remained calm. "You've never seen your parents' war."

That wasn't true. But the fact that Snake said it meant that the soldier didn't know everything. Roy grinned recklessly, in spite of himself.

"They told me enough."

Roy clutched his head in his hands. A headache had started up.

Something slid across the table towards him. Roy glanced at the screen of Snake's phone. Moving images. Phone camera footage. Volume muted.

"That's live," Snake said. "There's been a popular uprising in the capitol."

Roy shrugged. "That's been going on for years. Those poor kids don't have a chance."

Snake measured him with eyes that revealed nothing. "You talk big, but can you back it up?"

Roy glared at him.

"Tell me something, Roy. Is this the life you wanted for yourself? Working twelve hour shifts on the assembly line, breaking your hands to make toys, renting month to month at a motel. And then getting shit-faced by yourself on your days off and brawling low-lives in some back alley. You think your parents would be proud of what you made of your life?"

A cagey aggression started to take over, one that made Roy's palms sweat and his shoulders shake. "Hey, asshole, don't talk about my family like you were close with 'em, 'cause you weren't."

Snake leaned back, completely at ease. "I know you think you take after your father, but really, you are your mother's son." He picked up his own mug of coffee and took a casual sip. "Eliwood eventually let go of his dreams of liberating his homeland. At least in public. Your mother, on the other hand, never compromised."

Roy didn't counter that statement. He knew it was true.

"And your mother's name is being shouted on the streets of the capitol today."

Roy sneered. "Let the Lycians fight their own goddamn war. My father's heir is still alive, isn't he?"

"Officially, your father has no heir."

"And unofficially?"

"They'll call you. Because of the alliance your mother helped negotiate. The blood oath her descendants must live by."

Roy had the urge to punch the other man so hard it'd knock the beard off his face.

Indifferent to Roy's agitation, Snake continued with the sagely advice. "The rage you've felt all your life, Roy - you inherited it from your mother. It's going to boil over eventually and destroy everything in its path unless you do something about it. Your father wanted you to take it out on the stage, in orchestrated mock battles for public entertainment. But you never were very good at it, and your mother raised you for something else."

"I don't fight anymore, Snake."

The old soldier finished his coffee. "This wasn't a social call, Roy, but I think even you have it figured out by now." He set down the empty cup. "A position just opened up in the company I work for. Whenever you finally decide it's time to grow up and fulfill your obligations, you know how to reach me. Just keep in mind we're working with a restricted window of opportunity."

The man stood to leave. Roy averted his glare to the world outside, to the streets barely lit by street lamps. Everything looked like a mirage.

And Snake said, "Don't you think it's time to finish your parents' war?"

"Not my fight, gramps. Not my war."

The soldier considered him with a weighted look. "The uprising didn't start in Lycia," he said.

"It started in Sacae."

* * *

The only other person in the assembly department shorter than Roy was the guy he roomed with. And Roy never made fun of him for it, just in case Mac had issues with being short, the way Roy had issues with being short. Part of the reasoning had to do with the fact that Mac was built like a bulldog but sprinted like a greyhound and Roy wasn't sure he could dodge those fists if they ever came his way. But Mac had no bad temper. If anything, he was enthusiastically friendly enough to the point that Roy almost wanted to start shit with him just for the fuck of it.

They worked the same shift. Mac was always up when the alarm went off, like he had springs in his feet, punching the top bunk to keep Roy from rolling over and pulling the sheet over his head. And he made so much noise getting ready in their tiny room that Roy couldn't fall back asleep even if he wanted to (most of the time he wanted to).

His incessant talking kept Roy awake through their 3:30 AM snack breaks, when Roy downed his second energy drink of the night, trying to keep his eyes open. Not easy, even under the fluorescent glare of the break room, where workers gathered at lopsided tables to share vending machine food and watch whatever was on TV. A small group stood out in the parking lot under a plastic tent, rain or shine, puffing away at cigarettes. Sometimes, Roy joined them. Mac, being a good guy, tagged along to keep Roy company, even though he held his breath most of the time.

"Sorry!" the others kept saying if the secondhand drifted his way. They knew he was a runner.

After work, he and Roy split ways on the ride home, with Mac getting off the bus a couple stops early to go to the gym. Mac spent a lot of time there. Roy used to.

One night, when they weren't working, Roy dozed on the top bunk while Mac held a pretty one-sided conversation from the lower one. Mac had used the employee discount to get one of the company's games off the bargain rack. He played it now on Roy's handheld. The light of the screen hit the wall in an otherwise dark room, and Roy noticed something taped up there. A poster. He turned toward it, squinting his eyes to be sure. He couldn't make out the details, but he caught the shape of a familiar logo.

From below, Mac was saying, "I just don't get how Jigglypuff only evolves once into Wigglytuff, but then Pichu evolves twice. Like, does that even make sen - "

"Mac."

"Yap."

"Where'd you get that poster?"

"Huh?" From below, the sound of weight shifting. "Oh yeah, they were giving those away at the gym."

"Huh."

"Yeah. You want one? I could probably grab one tomorrow."

"Nah. So, you a Smash fan or something?"

"Yeah! See, there's something my trainer taught me. If you got a goal, you oughta put up little reminders, things you can see, so you don't lose track or get distracted. Like, you wanna new bike? Find the one you like, print out a picture, and put it up where you can see it. Wanna take an expensive trip somewhere? See the sights? Same thing. That way, it stays fresh in your mind."

"So, you wanna go to a Smash Tournament."

"Yeah, but not as a spectator, man. There's only one way you really wanna go to a Smash Tournament."

"Oh."

"That's what I'm training for, man! That's why... Like, you ever hear about the underground? For fighters, I mean."

"Yeah, I heard of it."

"I been there a few times. Haven't fought. Yet. But, you know, there's a rumor that the Smash Bros. recruit outta there. Don't know if it's true or not, could just be rumors, but still, could be true."

Roy released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, pictured wisps of cigarette smoke escaping his blackening lungs and floating up into the darkness like the funeral incense he lit for his parents twice a year.

He said, "That ain't a rumor, dude, that's real."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"Haha! That's great! Maybe, I could win a couple matches and get noticed."

"You don't have to win," Roy said. "All you have to do...is _fight."_

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

"I know." Roy closed his eyes. Pictured his soul escaping out of his body and floating off to the place where smoke went when the candle burned out, where dreams went when the dreamer woke up, where kings and warrior-queens went when nations fell.

"So I was watching this thing," Mac said, "some documentary, about where these obscure martial arts come from. So I guess, there are places out there where people still live like the old, old days you see in movies. They's hardly got any tech at all. They hunt animals, forage their own food, and basically they live like nomads. The country is beautiful out there. All open plains and wild. And so I was thinking, hypothetically speaking, if you could go live out there for the rest of your life, would you? Just walk away from modern life, go back to the old ways. How you think that'd be?"

Roy opened his eyes to the dark. A familiar pain started up in his fingers again.

"Sure," he said to Mac, "the place is beautiful, and every one in five births dies within the first year. You got no vaccines, no running water, no heat in winter. You also got no education or jobs besides herding and growing poppies. And plains land is hard to defend from invaders. The terrain offers no resistance. Armies march in and do what they want. You wanna push 'em back, it'll cost ya. So you spend a lot of time running, fighting skirmishes, using sneak attacks, but you're always running. Eventually, they'll come in and set up shop and there ain't nothing you can do. Just learn ta live with it, I guess. And over time, all the young people start leaving to find jobs in the big cities and they forget about their families, their traditions. Who wants to die a herder? Or a poppy farmer?"

Mac chuckled. "Well, since you put it that way, sounds kinda rough. Always figured you for a realist, Roy."

Something was burning behind Roy's eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. He said, "But you know what? Those people never questioned why they were alive. They just lived. And they rained hellfire on anyone who tried to take that life from them. If they needed a leader, someone stepped up. If a leader needed soldiers, they stepped up, all those common folks from the villages. If someone tried to take what was theirs, they fought to the last one standing. They may not have had indoor plumbing, but they never lived long enough to go paralyzed and senile and die attached to a machine.

"You ever take a good look at the shit that goes on in this city? Ever see the crazy people out in the streets trying ta stop traffic, druggies bashing old people until their skulls bust open, mothers threatening to kill themselves because the government took away their kids. You ever wonder what the fuck is wrong with us out here? Half of us ain't living, not really, we're just surviving. But we don't even know what for anymore. Whatever those people had back then, whatever it was that gave them direction in life, we lost it now. Like someone pulled the plug on us but we're still wandering around, aimless, like drones on autopilot. I don't even know sometimes."

Roy stopped, waiting for a reply. But all he heard from below was the soft sound of snoring.

"Asshole," he hissed, eyes burning with tears that refused to fall. "You're the one that brought it up in the first place."

* * *

She wore a long overcoat, despite the warm weather. Her hair was dark and sleek, reaching nearly down to her waist. But what had Roy's attention was the cylindrical carrying case on her back. She had a solid grip on the leather strap, slung over her shoulder, even as she eased casually onto a bar stool next to Mac at DK's. Security should have checked it, but most likely they thought it was a yoga mat or some new fashion trend in women's purses or something.

The shoulders of her coat were patched with a sword academy's insignia. She could only have been an elite fencer.

Mac's grin widened. "Ya made it!"

"Good evening, Mac."

Mac turned to Roy. "This is the girl I was tellin' ya about!"

With that, Roy got a sinking feeling in his stomach. He recognized those academy stripes. Mac had no chance with this one, whether he knew it or not. None at all.

"This is my roommate," Mac was telling the girl. "Lucina, meet Roy."

She extended a hand. Roy took it. Her grip was strong, and when he tried to match it, he felt a jolt of pain through his fingers, one that he hid beneath a mask of indifference.

"Nice to meet you," she said.

Roy nodded. "The same."

The crowd at DK's was denser than usual. They were there to watch some blond kid with a funny sword get his ass ripped off by Megaman on pay-per-view. Sounded fun in theory, but Roy wanted to run from the place. He wasn't anywhere near drunk enough for this. It wasn't his scene anymore, and he couldn't face its ghost sober.

At least the pre-fight fights offered some entertainment as Roy pondered his drink options.

While the Iceclimbers slammed Wario back and forth in a brazen and bizarre game of mallet hockey, Lucina moved her chair to squeeze in between Roy and Mac. With Mac pre-occupied by the ongoing match, Lucina leaned closer to Roy so she could be heard over the noise of the crowd.

"You're Lord Eliwood's son, aren't you?"

Roy downed the shot in his hand before he had time to think about things. He met her eyes.

"Who's asking?"

"I am, of course."

"Let me rephrase that. Why?"

She inclined her head, an informal bow. Her eyes shone like a killing edge. "I want to learn the Pharae sword style."

Roy laughed out loud. It caught Mac's attention.

"All good, buddy?"

"I'm buying your girl a drink. Don't read anything into it."

Lucina perked up. "Do they have mead?"

As it turned out, Shulk held his own against the crowd favorite. The match went to sudden death, wherein Megaman fell victim to a ridiculously far-reaching counter. The patrons at DK's booed.

"Yeah!" Roy shouted, fist in the air.

"You were rooting for that guy?" Mac asked, genuinely confused.

"Nah, just felt like being an asshole." On the big screen, Shulk held a victory pose for the camera, oblivious to the hate thrown his way.

Gradually, the crowd thinned out. The three of them stayed at the bar.

"You gotta figure that's how things were gonna work out," Mac said. "I mean, the guy had a sword."

"Mega had the gun," Roy pointed out. "You never bring a knife to a gun fight. That defies logic."

"The range on that counter is exceptional," Lucina mused.

Roy shrugged. "It's useful, I guess."

Lucina turned to him. "Is it true that the Pharae sword style is the only effective counter to the Altean sword style?"

Roy almost fell over laughing. "No."

"What is then?"

"Guns."

Lucina didn't seem impressed.

"Arrows and missiles work too," Roy added.

"I was thinking with regards to sword techniques."

Roy shook his head. The buzz he had going made it okay to talk. "The Altean style is adaptive. It has an answer to almost every other sword style out there. Most masters would say though that the modern Altean school is going to best the traditional school in just about every scenario. There's really only one practitioner of the traditional Altean style who can use it at the professional level. And that's only 'cause he's superhuman. After him, there won't be any others."

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

Roy sighed and ordered another round. "Because they don't train anyone else that way anymore, the way we used to train."

"Are you dissatisfied with the new generation of sword students?"

"Nah. It ain't that. The traditional style is hard to use. You hafta condition yourself for it in a way that most people would find too much, if you get my meaning. It came from a time when the art of the sword broke you down and remade you. It owned you. Back in the day, the masters of the art lived for nothing else. That's too much commitment to expect of students these days."

Lucina contemplated her drink for a moment. She said to him, "I practice the modern Altean sword style."

"Then you're not gonna need anything else."

"There's a chance," she said, "that I could face the last living master of the traditional style in the professional arena."

Roy's eyes fell again to the academy patches on her shoulder. "Congratulations."

'"I feel that I need to find some sort of special technique, something to neutralize his strengths."

"Pharae techniques ain't gonna help."

Lucina became silent, thoughtful.

"You sword people are losing me!" Mac cried.

"Drink more!" Roy fired back. "Shit makes more sense that way."

"This guy!" Mac nudged Lucina. "His family was in the business. Get him to train with ya!"

"That was the plan," she said, pulling a rueful face. "But he's not taking me up on that."

"Hey." Mac leaned in toward her, as if they were sharing a secret. But he'd had a few beers already, and what he thought was a discreet whisper didn't come out that way. "Pay him for lessons. The only people who call him these days are creditors. Sad story. He inherited the family business from his parents but couldn't make any money from it, had to sell it. Now he's flat broke with an ass-load of gambling debt and his wife left him. Help a brother out, wouldja?"

Roy growled. "God fucking damn it, Mac..."

"I am sorry to hear that," Lucina said. "I didn't know you were married."

"I wasn't, he just made that part up."

"The rest of it was true!"

"Shut up, Mac."

Lucina pointed the boxer toward a glass of water. He followed her lead like a wobbly puppy. Then Lucina turned to Roy, whispering in his ear, "Does he know you were in Smash Bros?"

Roy shook his head.

Lucina silently mouthed the next word, "Why?"

Roy looked away. "When you explain something you have to relive it."

"So you guys gonna do it?" Mac asked brightly.

Lucina nodded in Roy's direction. "Name your price," she said.

The look in her eyes made him think of his mother's the day they went to war.

Mac raised his drink in the air. "To the smashing!"

Lucina raised hers, and after a moment, Roy followed suit.

Mac meant to toast, but when he thrust his glass towards theirs, he did it with all his enthusiasm. And Mac was all enthusiasm. All three glasses shattered on impact, dusting the bar top with broken shards.

Lucina had the decency to look somewhat appalled. Mac began apologizing profusely to the bartender. Roy fell off his stool, laughing so hard he almost threw up.

He looked up at his companions from the floor. He could feel the stupid grin taking shape on his face.

"Let's do this," he said. And meant it.

Then, as he watched, a few more glass shards slipped off the edge of the bar. Roy followed their trajectory with his eyes. They hit the floor dangerously close to his head, but he didn't care. On the way down, they had seemed to glitter, as bright as diamonds.

* * *

_and in his wallet she kept on her nightstand_  
_an a.a. card and a lock of red hair  
_ _she kept secrets of pride locked so tight in her heart  
_ _it killed a part of her before the rest was gone_


	2. Chapter 2

_what would it take for you to notice  
_ _that i am a hand grenade  
_ _pin already pulled so don't let go_

\- Rise Against  
"Methadone"

* * *

Don't Speak Her Name

* * *

Lucina's kicks meant business, as Roy found out the hard way, through the half foot thickness of a padded block that threatened to slip out of his hands every time she landed a full standing roundhouse.

Training a female student came with its own set of complications. For one, it was better to do it in private. Guys had a tendency to stare at a woman throwing punches, and they made no effort to hide it. It was like some sort of innate, primal fascination.

But then, the last woman Roy had trained with was Samus Aran. And Samus Aran gave absolutely no fucks whatsoever about who was watching.

And now it seemed that Lucina approached the situation with the same attitude, even as heads at the gym turned to the enclosed sparring cage, where she relentlessly drove Roy backwards.

Just watching her would have winded him.

"Next time," he said, when they took a short break, "we should do this during off peak hours."

"Why?"

He nodded toward the sidelines. "Knuckleheads in the audience."

Lucina spun around. A crowd of onlookers had gathered, though they kept their distance. She raised a hand and waved. Her fanbase waved back, stars in their eyes. Mac was among them.

"Unbelievable," Roy muttered.

"If they knew who you were, I bet they'd want to meet you too."

Roy shook his head. "Might hafta put up some curtains up in here."

His student shrugged. "I'm kinda used to it."

_"I'm_ not."

"Is it because of me?" she asked. "Or is it because the Pharae style is meant to be a secret?"

Roy sighed. He crossed the stage and unzipped his gym bag. He removed two practice swords and tossed one to her. "Are you sure you want me to teach you?"

"Yes."

"I can still do that. But - " He took in the muscle tone of her arms and legs. "There is another sword style that may be better for you, in my opinion."

"You're a master of _two_ schools?"

"No." Roy pulled a polishing cloth from his gym bag to wipe away dust from the wooden sword. "I'm gonna be upfront with you, so there's no misunderstanding. I am, officially, the master of no school. I never got ranked. Just so we're clear.

"I learned my father's sword style when I was a teenager. But before that, I practiced my mother's. Both schools were passed on to different heirs. What I used in competition was a fusion of the two. But I want to teach you my mother's art instead of my father's. I think it would serve you better."

Lucina considered him with a heavy look. After a moment, she said, "You should know that I've met your brother - or, your half-brother, I should say."

Roy paused and stared at her.

"He was a senior student at the academy during my first year," she explained. "I asked him about the Pharae style once. He was generous enough to answer my questions. But he said that he doesn't take students, so I wasn't able to learn from him formally.

"At school, the other students gossip quite a bit. I don't care for it personally. But there were always rumors about you. Of course, no one knew anything for sure. I didn't dare ask him about it. However I couldn't help but notice...no one in the Pharae court has never openly admitted to your existence."

"Huh." Roy dropped the towel back into his gym bag. "Sounds about right."

Lucina continued, "But all the girls at the school...they idolize your mother. We all know of her. Most of us could only dream of ever reaching her level of mastery of the art." Her voice lowered. "I just wanted you to know."

Roy straightened up. "Okay," he said quietly. "I get you. Are we doing this, then?"

"Yes."

"Gear up."

They stood across from each other in the circle. He aimed his first strike not at her head but at the empty space next to it.

A mistake. He realized it a second late - she had already knocked his weapon out of his hands. It flew halfway across the room, and the dull noise of it tumbling against the mat stung his pride hard.

His eyes met hers through the face guard.

"I am not an amateur, Master Roy."

The point was made. He retrieved his weapon. Her eyes tracked his every move until he settled back in place before her.

"Then I won't hold back," he said.

The way she smiled at that made him nervous.

* * *

The day after his training with Lucina, Roy started running again. It was on a Monday, down by the track and field by a local school. He had to avoid the gym because he didn't want to run into Mac there. That woulda been embarrassing.

Halfway through the first lap, he swore he almost died. Had it really been that long since he'd been out running? By the third lap, a burning sensation had worked its way from the back of his throat all the way down to his stomach.

_Come on you asshole you useless fucking asshole move your goddamn goddamn don't give up don't you fucking give -_

He dropped onto the grass, fell to his back, stared at the bright morning sky, gasping. Dark spots winked at him in that sky. His throat felt like it was on fire. His stomach ached.

_Oh fuck you._

In his mind he heard the old Captain tearing him a new one. That hadn't happened in how many years? Five? Ten? Captain Falcon of the bargain bin superheroes. Blazing Falcon. The man whom so many of the trainees had wanted to become. The man who once grabbed Roy by the front of his shirt, lifted his wise-cracking ass into the air, and chucked him across the length of a room.

His parting words had stayed with Roy for years:

_"You think you're funny. Here's what I think is funny. Most trash-talkers I know have some skill to back it up. You? You got nothing. It's just your mouth that seems to think otherwise."_

Captain Asshole Falcon. Who rose before the sun every morning and never missed a gym day. Who lived by the creed of hard work and no bullshit.

Who had zero tolerance for pro bullshitters like Roy.

Falcon would be laughing his spandex-covered ass off right now.

Roy had spent most of his life keeping company with heroes and legends. And that, he'd come to realize, was the root of the problem. The standard of achievement for him had been raised to impossible heights. Roy was born to stand in the shadows of the greats. In retrospect, there had been no way he could have ever measured up.

Maybe, he was a slacker by choice. Or maybe, the pressure to succeed had crippled his mental state long before he ever stepped into the arena. Maybe, he backed away from his responsibilities to keep it all from crushing him.

Maybe he'd been chickenshit his whole life.

Roy was only really good at one thing. He could take hits like no one else. He'd go down like a brick, get kicked in the head for five straight minutes, and he wouldn't even black out. And when it was over, he'd get up and walk it off.

He could take any ass-beating. From Falcon or anyone. But he'd never win by being the punching bag.

The track was empty that day. Roy was alone. After the feeling returned to his arms and legs, he sat up. His mouth was dry.

_Would your parents be proud of you?_ the old snake had asked.

He got up and started walking.

Without thinking about it, his steps took him away from the track, down several blocks, to a place that lived in his memory.

The building looked as trashed on the outside as he remembered it. He wondered how it had held up on the inside. A faded banner on the front advertised renovated studios for month to month lease at discount rates.

Between the cockroaches and the fragrant smell of weed that came in from his neighbors, Roy'd had some good times there, even if Wario was a slumlord among slumlords. For a guy who came from a family of plumbers, he'd never bothered to actually fix anything. The bathroom ceiling had leaked brownish water the entire time Roy had stayed there.

But for what the place was, or had been, Roy still held on to the memory of it, the stain of it.

_Because you brought him there, the first time and every other time after, this kid with a trust fund and family ties to a deposed aristocracy, whose overseas relatives had old world money and a summer villa on an island with clean beaches and a winter estate up in the mountains somewhere. His passport had been stamped in countries around the world. And you took him there and fucked him in that place, that dank half-rotting room where junkies used to go to shoot up, where damaged people met for one-night-stands and lifelong mistakes, before the new maggot-eating landlord tried to spot clean it a bit. And still it smelled like chlorine, paint and stagnation, and at night you could hear the cockroaches rustling in the trash, chewing through the styrofoam surrounding last night's take-out._

_You had to have been crazy. Or addicted to the way he looked at you. Which was its own form of crazy. But in the mornings, he'd be gone, so quick you'd think you'd dreamt the whole thing, because how could you imagine the son of a lord walking through these streets, out into the parking lot, past the liquor store and the vacant lot where people tossed their old furniture, to get into a waiting cab that would take him from this moth-eaten, graffiti-tagged neighborhood back to whatever castle he'd come from. You'd have called it a hallucination, if it hadn't been for the marks his teeth left on your fingers._

Roy took the stairs up the side, walked past the row of front-facing apartments until he reached the facilities gate at the end. He tossed his backpack over it, then took hold of the top bar and pulled himself over the gate. Another set of stairs waited for him there. He climbed up to the rooftop and over the last gate.

A mess of broken bottles, discarded cigarette butts, and clusters of white bird shit greeted him. It was a reunion, really. He walked all the way to the edge, looked out over the urban sprawl before him.

_If you had worked harder, maybe you could have kept him. If you had fought harder, fought better, you wouldn't have lost your contract with the tournament league. You didn't need to be the best, just mid-tier, good enough. If you had kept your contract, you could have kept the dojo and the tradition and the right to your mother's name. And then you wouldn't have to live like a dog, chained to an assembly line, licking old wounds in the dark._

_But the fight takes discipline, and you had no will for it. Too addicted to smoke, drink, and vice - and a boy with long lashes and hair that fell into his eyes and scars on his back that reminded you of your own._

Roy hooked his backpack strap over one of the spikes at the top of the gate. He pulled energy bars from the front pouch, tore off the wrappers, and crammed them into his mouth. Chewed, swallowed, washed it down with bottled water. The process was painful. His stomach protested, threatened to vomit it all up, but he forced down more water, somehow kept everything in. Gave himself a minute to settle. Then he made sure his shoe laces were tied.

He stood up, went to the edge again. He plotted his course over the adjoining rooftops, not a new trail, just old steps re-traced.

_And 'sides, your momma raised you for something else, didn't she?_

Roy took a breath and jumped.

And flew.

When his shoes hit the roof of the next building, he took off running.

The sun was bright and hot on his back. The concrete hit him hard with each footfall. But he didn't stop.

Though she had never said it out loud, Roy knew. He had always known. He was once and always: decoy and sacrifice, protector of his father's heir. Should calamity befall the royal house, he would take the fall in place of his half-brother.

So he ran, jumped, and climbed, and ran again. He ran as though that calamity were chasing him. As if he could out-maneuver fate. Or his parents' legacy.

He ran until he had nothing left in his lungs.

* * *

"You're eating a lot more." Mac noticed these things.

"Yeah, well, that training with Lucina got my metabolism up, so..."

"That girl's amazing, ain't she?"

Mac got the starry eyes again. Roy sighed. But he wasn't about to argue. Lucina was everything that he had once wanted to be.

"We're meeting up for dinner. You should come!"

Roy shook his head. "Nah, I'm cleaning out my closet."

"Are you serious?"

"Got some things I'm thinking of selling."

"Well, you gotta get your money, man. We'll be out a while though. Whenever you finish up, come join us."

"Sure."

Then he started the slow process of pulling things out of boxes and putting them into other boxes. Turned out it was a lot of junk. But still, he was pretty sure there were collectors willing to pay for mementos from the previous Smash era.

Then he pulled out something that gave him pause.

It was clean and pressed; its yellow trim sharp against the dark blue. It had been torn apart and nearly destroyed countless times on the stage. Roy had mended it each time. Sewing was a skill handed down to him from his mother.

He didn't need to see it now, didn't need the reminder of how much time had passed.

But still. It was there, and just seeing it put an impulsive thought into his head.

He pulled his shirt off. Then he tugged his old uniform off the hanger and slipped his arms through the short sleeves. It still fit over his shoulders but it didn't close completely in the front. He shed his pants and pulled on the leggings as far as he could get them. He fixed on the belt.

Then he turned and faced the mirror. The reflection that met him was ridiculous, a caricature of himself. Of course no one could have expected him to keep the same proportions he'd had as a teenager.

Back then all the guys had wanted to be like the Captain. They had all signed on for Falcon's boot camp, tired of being skinny or flabby or constantly winded. And Captain had made sure to put them through hell. The running, the pushups, the weights - Roy could handle all that. The only thing he couldn't handle was the eating. The constant eating. So much food that all food started to look bad after the while. Falcon could shove anything into a blender and drink it three times a day, even if it tasted like chalk. Even Kirby would have balked at the Falcon's nutrition plan.

Roy had eaten until he'd felt like throwing up. And his numbers on the scale had slowly creaked along toward the heavier end. But the added weight slowed him down, made it hard to climb walls and jump from ledge to ledge, and he hadn't been that fast to begin with.

So he'd turned to Samus for speed and agility training. Back then, all the girls had wanted to be like Samus. But when she became a trainer, words like "suicide" and "you're gonna need paramedics on scene" got tossed around. Naturally, Roy had signed up to be her student right away. He'd survived Falcon, so he'd figured, how bad could it be?

As it turned out, nothing could have prepared him.

"You're good," she'd told him as she towered above his prone gasping form, a quarter of the way through the first lession. Because, to Samus Aran, "not dead" meant you were doing well.

"Oh gods, I can't feel my legs..."

"That's normal."

Aran went hard during her own training sessions; there was no reason to think she'd go easy on a student.

"You boys have no idea," she'd told him once. He'd been spotting her during bench presses.

"What?"

"The world doesn't expect you to carry its weight while looking like a supermodel at the same time."

"Well fuck those guys."

But it was never that easy. Looking good meant you got sponsors. It meant you got placed in ads. You helped companies sell energy drinks, shoes, gym memberships, phone cards, makeup, video games, car insurance. You helped them, and they helped your bank account.

Samus bulked up while she was training, but she always cut weight right before picture day. The effect made her look incredibly lean in the promo photos, to the extent that Roy sometimes swore he saw a rib showing.

Of course, he'd been no different.

If Samus had seen Roy or Link in front of the mirror every morning, armed with combs, hair gel, and straightening irons, she might have been amused. Even Mario had a team of stylists charged with the care of his iconic mustache.

(Besides, everyone knew that the only person who ever woke up in the mornings looking like a perfect princess was the one in the tiara, though if you asked Roy, he looked less like a princess while sleeping and more like a stray cat that had wandered in on its own, curled up, hair ruffled, face half-hidden in a worn-out pillow that Roy'd had since forever.)

Between Falcon and Aran, Roy saw his body torn down and remade. He hit harder; dodged better; fell faster; but his air game still sucked. His edge game sucked even worse, and he still couldn't strategize worth shit.

As hard as he worked, others worked just the same, if not harder. He wasn't the exception; he was merely the standard.

In the end, Roy couldn't be sure if any of it mattered. Aran and Falcon eventually left the dojo. They weren't the only ones. For Roy, the excitement of being made an instructor fizzled out quickly after he saw how thin the class attendance had become. When he finally made head instructor, he realized he was the king of an empty castle.

* * *

He packed up his old uniform. It wasn't the worst thing to have come across.

He'd saved the worst for last.

It was locked inside a long embroidered box within a carrying case. Roy flipped the latch on the outer case and opened the lid.

The colored threads on the box had faded with time. The sharpness of the corners had been rubbed down from years of sliding along foreign roads, all the places his mother had seen. The box had been shoved into car trunks and closets, hidden beneath floor boards, smuggled across enemy lines. It had lasted for several lifetimes before falling into Roy's hands. He still remembered it, as a child, the one thing his mother had never given up, even after they had given up everything else. He remembered, with it, his childhood spent on roads, his feet bloodied from walking. He remembered the sounds of howling beasts that roamed the plains at night, the circling vultures and pungent odors that marked a killing field. He remembered also the wails of human beings pushed beyond their limits, the anguished cries that often woke him from troubled sleep as he swayed in a hammock at the squalid refugee camp where they waited years for asylum.

And she, unbowed, still, would hold him and tell him stories. She had dried his tears only once. After that, there would be no more coddling, and he had found himself out of tears. She herself never cried. She, who, night after night, returned to the border to lead others to safety.

A part of him had never left that long road which they had walked together. Years later he could still recall it with vivid clarity. His mother's voice haunted him at night, called him from somewhere in the darkness ahead of him, urging him to keep moving, to stay ahead of the enemy, refusing to slow down for him, because they belonged to a world that devoured the weak, and she would not carry him because he had to learn to carry himself. She had taught him that much. She had taught him everything on that road through wilderness and broken things, on their flight into exile.

He had never forgotten.

Roy shut the lid of the case without even opening the box. Selling his organs on the black market would have been easier than parting with this.

He sent a message to a dealer he knew. He did it before he could have second thoughts. If the price was no good, after all, he could always say no. Then he drained the last of the whiskey he had on hand and fell asleep.

That night, he dreamed of cutting off his arm and feeding it to a dragon.

* * *

The sessions with Lucina continued. And she worked him to the point that he felt like a stunt prop. Her sword arm was deadlier than her kicks, and he'd feel it for hours afterwards, a trembling in his bones, as if he'd been run down by a force of nature. Maybe that wasn't far from the truth.

He started running with Mac, against his better judgment. There was nothing in it for Mac, who probably could have lapped him twice before Roy even finished his first go around the track.

"Come on! You can do it!"

Roy hated Mac's optimism, but he needed someone there so he wouldn't crap out into a pile of shit like the other day.

In the end, Mac clapped him soundly on the shoulder. "Hey, man, ya did it!"

"Fuck you, I'm dying..."

"Keep it up! It gets easier."

"Fuck you so much."

"We gonna spar tomorrow, right?"

"Goddamn..."

"No backing out!"

"Ugh..."

"Hey look!"

They had a spectator. She hopped off the metal railing where she'd been perched.

"Hey, gorgeous!"

"Good evening." Lucina gave Roy a look-over. To Mac, she said, "Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Mac clapped his back again, and Roy almost threw up.

"Do that again, and I'ma hafta kill you..."

They took him out to eat afterward, to a place that served burritos and chips on flimsy paper plates. The countertops were stained with kitchen grease, and the plastic chairs were cracked from decades of use. Roy figured that he and Mac probably belonged there, but Lucina was definitely slumming it hard.

The old flatscreen on the wall was tuned to a sports newscast.

"Who is this Shulk guy?" Mac wondered out loud as he watched the ongoing Smash Bros. montage. "Like, where does he come from?"

Roy shrugged. "Who cares? He can fight. That's all that matters."

"Can he beat Falcon?"

"He's fighting Falcon?"

"That's what people are sayin'."

"Then he's dead."

"Come on, he can hold his own. He beat Mega Man."

"Falcon's knee is a globally recognized weapon of mass destruction. Monando boy is dead."

"Monado," Lucina corrected him.

"A dead guy ain't gotta worry about his name."

"He looks pretty strong to me," Mac said.

"Have you seen Falcon? That fucker is a sack of steroids on legs."

"Yeah but he's _old,_ now."

"Dare ya ta say 'at to his face!"

"Does that guy even have a face?

"Why is Shulk half naked in all of these shots?" Lucina gestured toward the screen.

"If ya got it, flaunt it!"

Roy sneered. "Gross."

Mac hooked an arm across the back of Roy's neck. "Not your type, huh?"

"Stop cuddling me, freak."

"Aw come on, honey, don't be like that. I let you sleep on top every night."

Roy pulled back just enough so that he could jab his knuckles into Mac's armpit.

"Aw fuck! Shit! I just went numb right there!"

"Enjoy it."

"It's like - I suddenly have no armpit. What the fuck did you do to me? That some kung fu shit or what?"

Lucina's face went red from laughter. She hunched over, shoulders shaking.

"We should stop," Roy said. "I think Lucina's crying." That earned him a punch in the arm. "Ow!" That girl hit pretty hard.

Mac cheered her on. "Do it again! He's into that shit!"

She took a sip of her horchata while the flush receded from her face. "I'm impressed. You guys aren't even drinking tonight."

"We go loud and hard every night, baby!"

Roy popped an ice cube into his mouth and chewed. Oddly, a strange sort of peace had descended over him. Times like these made him forget the undercurrent of anger that always seemed to cling to him. He hadn't had good company in a while.

These things were temporary, he decided, so he should enjoy the moment while it lasted.

When they got up to leave, Roy stopped to slip on his jacket. The image on the flatscreen glitched out into a batch of pixels. Then it went blue. He looked back up at it the moment the reception came back.

Something else entirely had replaced the sports broadcast. A young woman, he thought, standing, but her face was blurred. Behind her, a grey wall. Over her shoulders, a cape. On her back, a rifle.

She spoke, the sound coming in rough, like an amateur recording. Words in an old language that Roy had not heard in years. Like a command he could not refuse, they rooted him in place.

He knew that language. His mother's language.

But it had been so long, it took his mind an extra second to translate. He only caught parts of the spoken phrases.

"...the abuses of the regime...cannot ignore...for our lives...for our families...and so..."

Then her image winked out. The screen went to pixels again, and eventually the corporate sports broadcast returned.

Roy shook free from the spell. He looked around. No one else seemed to have noticed. The other customers, seated at their tables, continued with their conversations. He turned and locked eyes with Lucina. Her mouth was set to a grim line. Even Mac, glancing back and forth between the two of them, seemed to pick up that something monumental had just happened.

In the restaurant, only they three appeared to have seen the quick hack into an official channel. The other patrons simply carried on. Their laughter, awkward now in the aftermath, hollow and ugly, grated on Roy's ears.

But then, he spotted two servers in dirty aprons, standing behind the register, their eyes still fixated on the screen, which was now playing a commercial. They looked as if they were waiting for the anonymous speaker to return.

"Was that her?" one of them asked.

"Yes, yes," the other answered. "The gods be with her."

Roy turned away. Only after he had stepped through the doors, out into the cool night air, did he realize that they too had spoken in his mother's native tongue.

The last words of the propaganda video circled in his head until, hours later, he lay in bed and finally unraveled them.

Roy knew that he had a half-sister out there in the world somewhere, whom he had never met. Some people said that she had survived the years of upheavals in her homeland, that she was still alive.

"We fight," she, the unknown rebel, had said. "We fight, we fight."

* * *

_as we chase the sun  
my shadow slows us down_   
_without me along_   
_you're better off,_ _i know_


	3. Chapter 3

_So no matter what you been through, no matter what you into_   
_No matter what you see when you look outside your window_   
_Brown grass or green grass, picket fence or barbed wire_   
_Never ever put them down, you just lift your arms higher_   
_Raise 'em 'til your arms tired, let 'em know you here_   
_That you struggling, survivin', that you gon' persevere_

\- Lupe Fiasco  
"The Show Goes On"

* * *

The Remains of a Summer Memory

* * *

(in the distant and not so distant past)

* * *

"The sun's coming up," she said. "You should head back to camp."

"Not tired."

"You won't get any breakfast out here. If you don't get in line for rations now, you'll go hungry today."

"I have work to do." He was adamant. In the mornings after sentry duty, he collected fire wood. He had a bundle of sticks in his arms at the moment, proving his worth to the operation.

She dropped to one knee before him. Her calloused hands cupped both sides of his small face. "All right then," she said. "A good soldier follows orders. Aunt Florina is your commander until I return. Don't upset her, don't disobey her. I'll be disappointed if you do. You'll hear from us when we need you."

She rose to full height. The sun broke through the hills behind her, covering the fields in orange and gold. She carried her sword at her hip.

"You'll take good care of things while I'm gone, won't you, Roy?"

* * *

Years later, the shrapnel lodged in his bones still gave him phantom pains.

Sometimes, though, the damage was real rather than imagined.

During his first pro-qualifying match, Roy ate a standing kick to the body that fractured two ribs and loosened the fragments of a bullet that had been embedded there ever since the last days of the war, ever since the chaos of his childhood. The fragments lacerated his liver, causing a severe bleed that sent him to the hospital for emergency surgery. He was out of commission for weeks, waiting for those wounds to heal.

When he came back, his nerves were shot. Less than an hour before his first match since rehab, he paced like a caged animal in the locker room, trying to fix his cape but finding himself unable to close the hooks properly. He kicked over a trash bin in frustration.

The door to the locker room opened. Roy didn't notice, not until a pair of hands reached out in his direction.

He flinched.

Marth took the front of Roy's cape and fastened the hooks with deft fingers. He tugged at the edges of the uniform so that it fit properly over Roy's shoulders. He seemed completely indifferent to the burning glare that was being thrown at him.

When Marth was finished, he stepped back. Roy would have thanked him, but the newly healed injury on his right side started to throb right then. His body still remembered the pain. His body still held a grudge. His body wasn't prepared to forgive, not yet.

"Are you ready?"

The question startled Roy out of his thoughts. "Yeah."

"Then let's go."

Marth turned to leave. He wasn't in battle ready attire, meaning he wasn't scheduled to fight that day. Roy had scanned the event program the day before without reading it. Per Smash tradition, fighters were never told who their opponents were prior to a match.

"Wait."

Marth stopped. "Yes?"

"Gotta ask you something."

Marth turned to face him, one eyebrow raised, the other hidden by soft blue bangs. "And?"

Back when they were both in training camp, Roy would have clocked him for that look, that goddamn look, the one that made it clear that you were beneath him. But not today.

Today he grabbed Marth by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the nearest row of steel lockers.

"What are you - "

Hearing the surprise and uncertainty in that voice just about made Roy's day. And then he surged forward and crushed their lips together, pressing Marth up against the wall. He could feel the tension in every muscle in Marth's body, and he thought that his rival would fight him. But Marth tolerated it for longer than Roy expected, until Roy pushed his tongue through, into that warm mouth, and then he was shoved away, so hard that he stumbled backwards.

He looked up, caught his breath, and waited for Marth to say something.

Instead, Marth just shook his head.

Roy had reached his limits. _"What?! You done with me? Is that it? You in the pro league now, so you don't wanna even acknowledge me? I'm not worth your time? Is that it?"_

When they were both in training, things had been different. In a crowd of strangers, in close quarters, they had orbited around each other, near enough to know each other but never near enough to touch. They both came from backwards third world countries on the same isolated continent. Marth wore his clothes from home with a quiet sort of pride, indifferent to the stares he got on the street. But Roy shoved his old clothes into a duffel bag, which he kept under his bed. Then he went and spent his first meager paycheck on a set of modern shirts and pants that he had to wash every few days because he only owned so many.

When the other Smash hopefuls gathered together in the evenings after practice, Roy sat with them and played cards, well aware that they only laughed at his jokes because he was their clown. It didn't matter. He had no one left in the world he could call family. So he would have to make himself a new family. It was either that or be alone.

Marth had stood out among that crowd. It was well known that he was their top student. When recruiters and sponsors came to visit, Marth always got the most attention. He was too good, too perfect - and way the hell too pretty. A few of the guys had a habit of blowing kisses in his direction whenever he walked by. Instead of making a joke out of it, Marth had ignored them, to the effect that the resentment against him only grew.

"Are your people always that stuck up?" they had asked Roy.

"I'm not Altean" had been his response.

The day it stopped being funny was the day that Roy, for the first time ever, knocked Marth down to the mat during practice. Marth had ignored the hand that Roy had offered to him, choosing instead to scramble to his feet and quickly leave the room.

"Well, he's always like that," the others said. "Probably upset that you made him look bad."

Roy swallowed down his pride and anger. Marth was untouchable. He had to let it go.

But a week later, Roy found his rival on the beach at sunset, tending to a bonfire. To Roy's surprise, Marth was wearing a modern suit. He was also pulling items from a pile and slowly feeding them to the flames.

He was burning his old clothes. And Roy knew what that meant.

Unable to ignore it, Roy approached the fire. "Congratulations," he said.

Marth looked up. There were tears in his eyes.

The ritual was an old one. Roy had seen it performed before. It signified major change in a person's life, a good change. Proud parents burned their children's old clothes when their kids graduated from school, for instance.

But Marth, kneeling before the fire, covered his eyes with his hands, and cried.

Roy took over the ceremony. It was bad luck to let the fire die out before the job was done. He picked up one article of clothing after another and tossed them into the pyre.

When there was nothing left, he took a seat next to Marth. They watched the flames burn, neither one speaking.

Roy suddenly realized that he would miss how Marth had looked in his traditional clothes. He had always looked good in them.

Because Marth wasn't saying anything, Roy started talking. He told Marth about the Altean-speaking aid workers he had met at the refugee camp when he was a kid. About the peacekeepers who taught him how to play cards, and the ex-soldiers who taught him how to stitch wounds. About the pregnant women who gave birth in open fields next to freshly slain corpses. About the kids who grew up out of those camps to become thieves or prostitutes or mercenaries. About his mother. All of his stories came back to his mother, somehow.

Outsiders who'd never seen the things he'd seen kept saying that he must have grown up too fast. But in his own mind, Roy hadn't been able to grow up fast enough. As a child, he'd only wanted to become stronger, to protect what was important to him. He'd never slowed down long enough to analyze what having a past like his meant, what his role in the world would be after the war, after their defeat. Only when he couldn't sleep at night did those thoughts surface and run circles in his head.

The sun had set by the time he finished. The bonfire grew small. Marth leaned against him, curled up tight against the onset of the night's chill.

Roy turned to him, to suggest that they get going before the last of the light was gone. But Marth leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips.

It was, all things considered, a rather chaste kiss.

There had always been something about Marth that had seemed "off." Roy had wondered about it in his idle moments, had wondered if Marth was "off" the same way Roy himself was "off." He'd first learned about human attraction through the sex workers he befriended at the camp. No one else had ever taught him about those types of things. There hadn't been time. He'd had to figure most of it out on his own.

Marth pulled away with a quiet apology, ducking his head, eyes downcast, as if he were expecting to get slapped.

Roy grabbed Marth's hand and pressed a kiss to the underside of his wrist, to the pulse beating there. Marth stared at him wide-eyed, as if he didn't dare smile or speak.

Roy didn't let go of his hand. "Remember me when you're on the winner's podium."

In the stillness that followed, the only sound was that of the rush of waves.

Before the fire died completely, the two fighters rose together. They left together.

They carried the scent of the ocean home with them.

Later, Roy looked around Marth's sparse dormitory, which had been cleared of all excess belongings, leaving only the bed, desk, chair, and a small lamp that the training school had provided. A single traveler's bag waited by the door, packed and ready.

The lamp gave off a very weak light. And in that half-dark, Roy almost tore off all of the buttons on Marth's brand new shirt. Beneath the ocean's salt, Marth smelled like clean laundry and expensive soap. The shirt still hung off of his right arm, like a defeated flag, when Roy pushed him down onto the mattress.

Roy was by no means an expert in love. He could only put up a front, pretend to be fearless, and plummet down into the abyss. Fire, teeth, and nothing promised. It was all he had.

And still, the travel bag and its owner were gone by morning - gone by taxi to catch an early flight that would carry him off to a new place, to a new life, the sort of life that they all fought for, sweated for, and bled for, but which very few attained. Left behind with the rest of the cheap furniture, the thing Roy remembered most about that summer was the warmth and its loss.

* * *

"Don't think of me when you're up there on the stage. You'll fail if you do."

Marth left him with those words in the locker room that day, less than an hour before the fight that would make him known. And the bitterness of the interrupted kiss lingered in Roy's mouth as he made his way down the corridor, past the plain white walls that fans and cameras never saw.

He had a lot riding on this fight. The last the world saw of him, he was falling from the stage, taken down by a hit that any student fresh from training camp would have taken without flinching. The audience had been so disappointed that they filled the arena with boos and jeers. No one knew that he was hemorrhaging on the inside at the time. No one knew what he had carried inside of himself for years.

It is said that when a lion takes over a pride, he first kills off the cubs of the previous king. Roy, illegitimate half-breed cub, was the unexpected survivor of such a cull.

A restlessness lay within his blood, like an electric wire, fully charged. Something was calling him now, a song from another place, another time. He felt it in his bones.

Roy hit the doors running.

The momentum carried him out into the bright spotlight, and with the sea of spectators roaring loud, he charged forward like an unchained dog. The bell rang, the fight began, and he knew then that he'd only ever lived for one thing - to break and to destroy, to draw the blood of others, to fight. It was the only thing in the world that could soothe the turmoil raging in his own heart.

* * *

Music. Loud bass. Champagne. A million ongoing conversations among a crush of bodies.

Roy shook hands and smiled for pictures, hugged complete strangers and repeated their names only to forget them a minute later. Everyone was acting like they knew him. He bought drinks for half the city, took a shot every time someone invited him to, and after a while, their words all just blurred together. He answered their questions without even hearing his own reply.

The only people he cared about at the moment were his old crew from the training school, who had flown out this way just to see him. He set them up with a luxury suite and paid for a driver and a private car to take them around town. He made sure their drinks always got refilled.

Mia threw both arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the cheek. Boyd kept high-fiving him in between shots before passing out on the couch. Falco called him a motherfucker several times and refused to drink anything except the most expensive tequila in the house.

That was his crew. He had to look out for them. The rest, he didn't much care for, but parties were business, and after-parties were serious business, and Roy needed to start networking. Didn't matter that he was still ringing in the head from the fight. Doc M said to take it easy and had prescribed a bottle of red and blue pills.

He managed to escape into the marble-tiled bathroom for a few minutes to splash cold water on his face. Then he swallowed three pills and chased them with rum and coke.

Roy straightened out his new suit and stepped out into the hallway. There, he almost tripped over a woman in a yellow dress throwing up into a potted plant. He recognized the man patting her back as Luigi, the world-famous record-holder of second-place wins. Roy thought about introducing himself, but the man seemed pre-occupied with the well-being of his date. So Roy just slipped off, stumbling as he tried to round the corner.

He stopped to press his forehead against the cool hard wall. He collected himself. Then he headed for the elevator.

When he got up, the room was trashed. His crew was passed out on the sofas, surrounded by empty bottles and shot glasses. The TV and the lights were still on.

Roy dimmed the lights and lowered the volume on the TV. He went to the window and opened the blinds. They were automatic, button-operated. Roy hadn't seen that type of thing before.

He scanned beyond the skyscrapers and the neon lights of downtown, where palm trees lined the streets. There was no ocean here, just the desert.

And then something hit him, a thought, something he had almost forgotten. He jerked upright, the weariness leaving his body in an instant.

He pulled his duffel bag out from underneath the table and left the room.

He went down to the bottom floor of the hotel, out to the pool area, looking for a quiet spot. But there were people everywhere.

In the lobby of the expensive shopping mall, which was closed for the night, he found the massive grand fountain, its spray turned off. Flashing lights from the strip reflected off the surface of the still water.

Someone was seated at the edge of it.

He still wore traditional clothes, it seemed. The cape was missing tonight though.

Marth stood up in one fluid motion. He offered Roy a faraway smile.

Roy shoved one hand into the pocket of his dress slacks. With the other he gripped the strap of the bag. "Hey," he said after a pause.

Marth held out a hand, silently beckoning. Confused, Roy reached out and took it in spite of himself.

Something about holding hands in public, even though they were alone, made him nervous. But Marth tugged him gently forward, toward a pair of towering doors.

They hadn't spoken since Marth was recruited into the pro league. Roy didn't know how things stood between them. The thought that Marth could have been waiting this whole time for Roy to join him in the ranks of the elite didn't seem likely.

They pushed through into another open courtyard. Crude yellow light touched the leaves of vines that grew along the walls. It took a second for Roy to realize that the light came from torches. In the center of the stone floor, a bonfire burned in a hearth.

Marth let go of his hand. He stopped in front of the fire.

Roy felt a faint smile twist his lips. "You know I almost forgot?"

Marth turned, hair slipping into his eyes. "How could you?"

Roy shrugged. "Got too excited, I guess. Everybody's been out to get a piece of me tonight. Almost forgot why I'm even doing all this."

Roy set down his bag and unzipped it.

"Let me help you."

"I got it." He pulled out an old shirt.

Marth watch him place each item from his past into the fire, his fingers coming dangerously close to the flames. Roy had no fear. Together, they watched it all burn away.

The smoke rose skyward, chasing embers on the ascent.

"You can't see the stars from out here, can you?"

"No." Marth looked down at the hearth. "The stars won't show themselves here."

"You think it's all worth it? I mean, it's gotta be. We made it this far." Roy laughed softly. In that moment, he could have soared with the smoke and embers, even if it was into an empty star-less sky. He burned his past for his mother. And the father he'd barely known. And for all the others they had lost. He needed to do something to let them know that he was alive, that things would be better from now on. There'd be money for a better life now. He'd get that car and house that he'd always said he would get when he was a kid. He'd start a proper school to carry on the family arts so that the tradition wouldn't die. Maybe set up a fund for war orphans, and build a monument for the veterans.

He could do that now. He had money now for all of that.

"Congratulations," Marth said in a voice that was all but a whisper.

Roy caught him by the arms and pulled him close, taking him by surprise for the second time.

"You too, huh, Marth? You're the same as me, aren't you?"

Marth stared at him. Then he came in closer and let his lips graze the outer curve of Roy's ear. He whispered, "I am the king's sacrifice. My life belongs to the kingdom."

"Your life belongs to you."

Slowly, Marth slid his arms across the back of Roy's shoulders, burying his face in his friend's neck.

"I wish that were true."

Roy tightened the hold he had around Marth's waist, recalled the warmth he'd held briefly for a night the summer before. Not a memory now, but something real, a pulse pounding hard in his arms.

Then he looked straight up at the sky. That dark sky where stars refused to shine.

_Hey, mom, you were right. Your bastard son is still here..._

_Still alive, after all this time..._

* * *

_Ain't nobody leavin', nobody goin' home  
_ _Even if they turn the lights out, the show is goin' on_


	4. Chapter 4

_i am forever in love  
_ _a lover with a flaw_

\- Aoife Ni Fhearraigh  
"The Best is Yet to Come"

* * *

Do You Like Your World?

* * *

Mac walked in with a black eye one day, like nothing was wrong. He fixed himself some cereal with milk from the mini fridge and ate it in bed. He seemed even more upbeat than usual.

"The hell happened to you?" Roy didn't like letting these things linger.

"Training accident." Mac shrugged it off.

But Roy knew Doc, knew how the man ran his gym. The trainer took no risks and tolerated no nonsense from his fighters.

Mac had been both distracted and restless lately. Lucina had noticed it too. But Roy'd had suspicions for a while. He knew the signs, from the way Mac wrapped his knuckles and iced his wounds, to the odd hours that he stayed out late. Roy knew what was going on, even without having to ask his friend directly.

Mac had been to the underground. He'd been fighting illegal bouts. He was hoping to get recruited. Chasing the same dream that Roy had abandoned.

It was dangerous. But if he possessed even a fraction of the same ambition Roy had once had, there'd be no talking him out of it.

Roy knew exactly what that was like. He'd been reckless once. He couldn't deny Mac the chance of victory. But Roy also knew the flip side of it. Between the loose molars and the cracked ribs and traumatic brain injuries, there was a magnificent price to pay for glory.

The seasons were changing. And as the weather cooled, Roy felt a creeping unease. Just as he had grown used to some things, just as he had started to form some meaningful bonds, he had a feeling he was about to lose it all again.

On the anniversary of his father's death, Roy finally got word from his dealer. There was, apparently, a buyer for the sword.

Rent was due. So Roy agreed to meet up and close the sale. The chosen location was a hotel downtown.

On the weekend, while Mac slept in, Roy dragged himself out of bed. The buyer had arranged for a cab to take him to the meeting. Waking up had become easier these days for some reason.

The morning streets were quiet. It was so clean in this part of town. The sidewalks had been swept. The new theater had opened. Some new restaurants had moved in too. All of it seemed high-end. Roy never came here much.

The cab let him off at the front entrance of the hotel. Roy stepped through the glass doors and into the lobby. Beyond the reception desk, there was a cafe, nearly empty at this hour.

Seated at the bar was a familiar figure, wide shoulders testing the seams of a navy polo shirt.

Roy made his way over. He grinned in spite of himself. "Great fucking Aether, you fucking loser."

Clean cut and inconspicuous, Ike Greil nevertheless had the eyes of a man that the world had tried to break. He rose up to give Roy a hug.

"How have you been, you goddamn pain in the ass?"

"Ah, well, you know. Surviving." Roy took a seat next to him.

On the opposite wall, a big screen TV ran a newscast. War and financial downturns. Movie star marriages and political elections.

"I heard rumors," Ike said.

"Rumors?"

"That you were making a comeback."

"Nah, man." Out of the corner of his eye flickered a censored image of a dead child, embraced by a wailing young father.

"I'm done," Roy said.

Ike looked him over. Probably could tell that he'd been working out. Probably wondered what for.

A server behind the counter offered a complimentary glass of a ice water. Roy accepted.

To Ike, he asked, "How's business?"

"It's okay."

"Still fighting for your friends?"

Ike slid a business card over the counter top. He had a wedding band on his ring finger. Roy decided not to ask about it. He'd save that one for later.

For now, Roy just picked up the business card. "Private contract security?"

"It's a paying gig."

On the card, Ike had dropped the traditional "son of" between his name and his father's. He had opted for a more modern naming pattern. Most people from their part of the world did the same so that their names would fit properly on legal forms.

"Sounds decent," Roy said. "How's the family?"

"My sister had her baby. She wants to name him after me."

"That's a compliment, man." Roy thought that he really owed Boyd a text, a call, or something.

"I told her to pick something else. I don't want to carry that burden."

"Aw, can't be that bad."

But it was another mouth to feed. It meant that Ike would be out in the field working again. Real soon.

"I like to keep a low profile."

"Can't blame ya."

"We're lucky in a way. As long as there's unrest, there's business for us."

Roy took a sip of the water. "That's just how things are. The world needs peacekeepers too."

Ike nodded. He never liked to talk about his job too much. "I was surprised to hear from you."

"Really?"

"I heard you fell off."

"Well, my life's not that interesting."

Ike started to say something, then stopped. He and Roy had come from the same continent. From countries with interwoven histories and similar troubles. If anything, Ike understood the things that Roy would never say out loud.

"When my father died," the mercenary told him, "we had to sell some of his things. The company was in debt. We were trying to stay afloat. Eventually, some jobs came through. We got things up and running. We got some money. When our ledgers were out of the red, I went out and bought back some of the things that we had sold off. My father's mementos. They have less value to other people than they do to me. Sometimes, it's a physical object that ties us to our history. It's hard to not have a past. Without that connection, we're fated to always wander, to spend time in places but not belong anywhere. There's no purpose to life when you have no attachments."

Ike understood things too well.

Roy lifted the case containing his mother's sword onto his lap. He'd been holding it this whole time. Now he handed it over to Ike, wordlessly.

Ike accepted it. He didn't put it on the counter but held it protectively across his knees. He flipped the latches and opened first the outer case, then the inner embroidered box.

Roy watched him over the brim of the glass of water. Ike never touched the sword itself. He just looked it over. Then he closed the lid of the box. He shut the carrier case over it and latched it tight. He turned to Roy.

"Are you sure?"

"Wire me the money."

"I will."

On the TV screen, armored tanks rolled out across a field, grey mountains in the background, under a blue sky. Through the smoke and mist, masked riders on horseback, armed with rifles and bows and arrows, rode out to meet them. Clouds of dust, kicked up from the galloping horses, enveloped the riders. They pressed forward against impossible odds. The footage cut away to a map, red dots pinpointing key locations of interest. Then it cut to a commercial. Smash Bros. promo material. Samus versus Bayonetta.

Roy watched it all without comment. Next to him, Ike did the same.

"Do you want to meet the buyer?" the mercenary asked.

"Not really."

Ike hesitated. "The buyer wants to meet you."

"Why?"

"It's complicated."

"Is there something I should know about this deal?"

Ike gave him a single nod. "He's staying at the hotel. I can take you to his room. If you'd rather not, that's okay. The deal will still go through."

Ike was known for his straightforwardness. He didn't have the temperament for deception or manipulation. If he withheld information, it was because he was protecting something or someone.

Roy sighed. "Okay. Fine. Have him send the money. Then we'll go up."

"All right." Ike got on the phone. It took a few seconds. "Let's go."

Roy followed him to the elevators. Ike carried the sword in its case. Missing its weight, Roy kept both hands in his pockets while they rode up.

At the top floor, they stepped out onto the hallway. A suite waited for them at the very end of the corridor. Ike waved his key card, and the door clicked open.

It was probably the most expensive suite in the hotel. The couches and tables were occupied. Roy glanced over the gathering and placed the subjects into two groups. One was clearly Ike's, professional security trying to look casual. The other belonged to Ike's client. Civilians in business attire.

Ike nodded at his people as he crossed the room. Roy followed. But behind him, the whispers of a conversation caught his ear.

He stopped. Couldn't help it. He knew that tone.

So he turned around to face off with one of them. Tall motherfucker. Roy locked eyes with him. Chin out. Stance open. Hands at his sides. "Say that again?"

It was one of Ike's guys. He and his buddy stared at Roy like he was garbage. "We were wondering," the man said, "if you were the half-son of Eliwood."

The words were all right. But the tone of it was all wrong. Some people knew how to get under your skin with a single look or an inflection of voice.

Fire surged in his blood. But Roy bit back the worst of it.

"I am the son of Lyndis," he said.

"Really? Don't think she ever mentioned you."

Ike looked over. "Shinon..."

"Nice," Roy said. "Shannon. That's the cutest name I've ever heard for a bitch."

The other man flushed red. Jaw clenched. "Listen, you freakin' leprechaun. You're too short to be throwing words around like a tough guy."

"And you're too pretty to wanna get your face smashed so hard."

"If I weren't working, you could try me. We'd see which of us gets beat."

"Well, I guess you could still sell handjobs with a broken jaw."

"You think you're funny."

"I know I'm funny."

"You've got some mouth for a washed up ex-pro from the bottom tier."

"You've got some good hair for an old prison bitch."

Ike stepped between them. "Enough."

Shinon turned away in disgust.

Ike motioned for Roy to come with him. Roy blew a kiss at his adversary, then followed Ike through the doorway. In the next room, three men and one woman were seated around a glass conference table. They were strangers to Roy. All but one.

He locked eyes with Roy and rose from his chair, holding out a hand. The others stood up with him.

Numbly, Roy took his hand. They shook. He had the strong grip of a fencer.

"Thanks for agreeing to meet with me." His was a simple honest smile. Blue eyes. Auburn hair. A very young face, features like that of the father they both shared. "I'm Roy of Lycia."

Son of Eliwood and Ninian. Duke of Pharae.

"I'm just Roy."

Duke of roach infested motels and gas station toilets.

"Please have a seat."

"Sure." Roy slid into the nearest chair.

"We met a long time ago," the other Roy said. "We were both children then."

"I remember."

"Those were difficult times. I want you to know that we tried to find you. We didn't know you were still alive. Our reports said that you had fallen in the siege at the capitol. We were relieved to learn that it wasn't true."

"It's fine. It turned out all right."

He was supposed to have fallen. He was the chosen decoy. But he'd been too strong. And his mother had had other plans.

Not even an army had been able to stop her from protecting her son. The first one in to the fight, and the last one out - that was Lady Lyndis of Sacae.

Ike gently placed the case onto the table.

The young duke reached for it. He opened the lid. For a moment, he simply stared at the sword. Then he closed it back up, respectfully. Like the lid of a casket.

"You've taken very good care of this heirloom. I know what it must mean to you to part with it. I'm not buying this for myself. This sword, Lady Lyn's sword, will go to her daughter. Her daughter and I are allies in this struggle. So I wanted to give this to her. It would mean a great deal to both of us."

Roy took a long deep breath. He let it out. "Yeah. It's the right thing to do, right?"

"We think so."

"All right. It'll be in good hands."

He wondered if he could just get up and leave with too much fallout.

One of the aides set down two cups on the table and poured a traditional wine into them. The duke handed one cup to Roy. He took it. They raised cups in unison and drank.

"You've been our loyal servant since birth. We would have provided for you in better times."

"Hey, it's okay. I found my way."

"You know the situation we're facing now."

"I guess so. I've seen the news."

"One day, I'd like to repay you properly."

"Don't worry about it."

"If it weren't for your sacrifice, I wouldn't be alive right now. No matter what else happens to me in this life, I don't think I'll ever forget you."

His sincerity, laid out in the open, commanded respect from everyone in the room. No wonder Ike had chosen him, and his cause, to fight for.

Roy pushed his cup toward the aide with the wine bottle. "Have another with me then."

"Of course."

They drank another. Then another. And another. The tension in the room eased up a little. Two of the aides slipped out. Ike and one other stayed behind.

Roy took over pouring the wine.

The half-brothers raised cups again.

"To our mothers," the duke said. "And our father. May they watch over us."

"To my sister," Roy said, "and her father, and the rebellion. May they survive."

* * *

"I've never seen him cut loose like that," Ike said.

"Yeah, I'm a pretty bad influence."

Braced over the sink, catching cold water in his hands. Roy rinsed off his face. Checked his eyes in the bathroom mirror. He was okay. Not even halfway drunk yet.

Ike stood with his back to the wall, arms crossed, hair tousled, eyes dark.

"Didn't expect you to join us," Roy said.

"I don't drink often."

"Yeah, well, keep on doing you, right?"

Ike leaned forward against the edge of the sink. Roy made way, watched as Ike tugged off his headband and held it under the water. He soaked it through and wrung it out. Then he pressed it to his forehead.

By removing the headband, he had revealed a scar that was usually hidden beneath it. The mark was at the center of his forehead, curved and crossed over, smooth and pale red. It looked like a sacred wound.

Roy couldn't help himself. "Is there a story behind that?"

Ike shut off the faucet. "It's a brand," he said.

"I've heard of them. Looks like it must have hurt."

"Not really." His voice was quiet enough that Roy recognized it as a sensitive topic.

Roy pulled aside the collar of his shirt to reveal the ink on his chest. An old word in ancient script. A name.

"I only play with needles."

Ike offered a wry smile. "Do you have a story for that?"

"Nah." Roy straightened out his collar. "It's just so that I remember something that I need to remember."

 _Someone_ that he needed to remember. But he wasn't going to spell it out like that.

Ike stared down his own reflection in the mirror. "I got it done when I was on deployment," he said. "It was... because of a vow."

Roy nodded. He glanced at the wedding ring and figured out the rest. This, ritualistic scarring, was something they both had in common.

"Then you better keep your promise," he said to Ike. To the living or the dead, he didn't want to ask.

"I'm trying."

"That's all we can do."

Ike sighed and threw his head back. He blinked hard, then looked at Roy. "I'll take you back to your place."

"Sure."

They slipped out the bathroom and left the suite. Roy had already said his goodbyes. The elevator brought them down to the parking garage. A couple of Ike's people met them there.

"Hey, boss."

"I'm taking my car."

"No problem. It's right here."

"Thanks. Don't stay up too late."

The two men laughed.

A nondescript black SUV waited in a corner of the garage. Its interior matched the exterior, dark and polished. All manual controls. With Ike in the driver's seat, Roy took the passenger side. The vehicle made almost no noise as it started up and Ike pulled them out of the garage.

Roy wanted to ask if it was bulletproof, but he didn't want to look like an idiot.

They hit the expressway. The hour was late enough that all lanes were open. The city skyline lit up their right, while mountains rose up to their left. Roy lay back in his seat.

"If I were you," Ike said, "I wouldn't have done it."

Roy said nothing.

"To live like this, without a country, without a home. It takes a lot out of you. For the rest of your life, you'll go on, knowing that something vital was taken from you. It will always be missing. We're not like the people who belong to a set place. People who have a homeland. We were losers long before we ever made it to the big stage. Before they made us rockstars and celebrities, we were orphans, every single last one of us."

The sky was as dark as the road. No stars. Just man made lights to show them the way.

The way where? Home? Where were they going?

"Have you ever met my half-sister?" Roy asked.

Ike nodded, just once. "I can't say much on that. She is determined. She is capable. Her trainer was Shinon."

Roy couldn't stop his eyes from rolling. "That sounds fucking awesome."

"His personality is trash," Ike said, "but he's good at what he does. Otherwise he wouldn't be working for me."

"If you say so."

"The only other thing I can tell you about your sister is that..." Ike stopped to consider his next words. "She is everything her mother would have wanted her to be."

"Then it's just as well that she has the sword. I was just holding it for her anyway."

"I'm sure your mother wanted to give you something too. But there just wasn't enough to go around. Those were the times."

"She gave me this life," Roy said. "That's everything right there."

His first vow had been to her. His last would be to her memory.

"Don't throw away what she gave you," Ike said.

"I won't. You don't either, ya' hear me?"

* * *

Roy was tired by the time he reached his apartment. Ike had dropped him off at the door.

"Keep my business card," Ike had told him. "I'll be in touch."

"Thanks, man."

Once inside the room, Roy shed his jacket and shoes. All he wanted was his bed.

It was late, and he left the lights off while he felt his way quietly to the top bunk. But as he lay down, something didn't seem right. He felt a small piece of paper pressed against his back. He reached behind him and pulled it out in the dark. It was an envelope.

He climbed back down and hit the light switch.

Mac's bottom bunk was empty.

Not only that, the closet door had been left open. Inside, there were only Roy's things. All of Mac's things were gone.

Written on the front of the envelope, in Mac's jagged handwriting, was the message: "I don't do good byes. See you there. Love you, man."

Inside, Roy found a plastic card. He immediately recognized the flashy logo. VIP, all access. A spectator ticket to the next Smash tournament.

He checked his phone. He had missed a call from Lucina. He sent her a text.

She responded almost immediately: "Meet me at the gym tomorrow, usual time."

Roy lay back down in the dark, but he couldn't really sleep.

Mac was gone. Fucking bastard.

As he drifted off, he had dreams that seemed too real. Dreams of break room conversations and glass shattered across the top of a bar. Dreams of the monotony of the work day. Dreams of fights in the arena before a crowd.

He woke up late the next day. Had time to shower but not shave. He arrived at the gym to find Lucina already waiting.

She held up her ticket. "I got one of these in my mail slot. He never told me anything."

"I got one too."

"That idiot!" She reached into her breast pocket and retrieved another plastic card, this one gold-colored. "I already have one. I got accepted. I'll be competing."

Roy smiled. "Congratulations."

Lucina rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. "I can't believe he left like that! When I see him, I'm going to kill him. What's wrong with him?"

"He hates good-byes apparently."

"Doc Louis is here. We should go talk to him."

They found the trainer in his office. He had his own Smash VIP badge laid out on his desk.

"Mac's gonna be fine," he assured them. "Kid's got fire. Never thinks a damn thing through, and that may be his undoing. But it looks like it's working out for him so far."

"But you're his trainer!" Lucina objected. "How's he going to handle things without you? He can barely tie his own shoe laces."

"Well, the Smash training camp is set to start real soon. I'll get to joining him after I find a replacement to look after things for me here. This gym ain't gonna run itself."

Roy looked at the papers stacked on the desk, recognized some of them as invoices from various vendors. He knew what it was like to run an operation of this scale. He knew what it was like to watch the bottom line, to worry about breaking even, to fight to stay ahead of loan payments and debt collectors.

Once, when things had gotten bad, he had borrowed money from Falco, swearing that he'd pay him back. And Falco had simply patted Roy on the shoulder and never asked about it again.

Last night, when the bank had confirmed the wire transfer, Roy had sent his old friend that long overdue payment.

So he knew that Mac wasn't just in it for himself. He was reckless but not selfish. He intended to rise up and take everyone else with him.

All he had to do was compete. The fame and recognition would boost the business at Doc's gym. Take care of those who took care of you - that was a rule that Mac had always lived by.

"But why did he run off like this? He could have just told us in person."

"I don't know, young lady. He _has_ taken quite a few hits to the head in his time. So he don't always think straight."

"Did he say good-bye to you at least?"

"No, he didn't say bye. He called and said, 'Doc, I got in. You'll still be my trainer, right?' And I said, 'Yeah, I'll be there to back you up.'"

Doc looked between Roy and Lucina. "You kids are going too, aren't you?"

Roy nodded. "Yes, sir."

"Then there's no need to worry. We'll all meet again at the tournament."

Lucina was fighting back tears. She sprang forward and gave Doc a hug, catching the older man by surprise.

"Thanks for letting us train here," she said.

"You're welcome, honey. Just remember, when you're out there, hold nothing back. If you up against Mac, give it to him too. He can take it."

They left the gym, and Roy took Lucina out for food. Tried to cheer her up a little. But he was in the same mental space as she was. They both fell quiet, lost in their own thoughts.

"You're coming too, right?" she asked him. "Even just to watch."

"Well, if I can get the time off."

"You should. Please try. He'll be lost without you."

"Yeah, he once flooded the first floor of the dorms trying to do laundry."

"I remember that story! See? He needs you around to keep him out of trouble."

Afterwards, Roy walked her to the train station, knowing that they were parting ways, possibly for good.

"I'm sorry I can't continue my training," she said. "I really do want to learn your mother's sword style. When the tournament ends, I'll be back."

"It's fine. This should be your top priority for now. I'm going to send you info for another sword instructor I know who works with Smash fighters."

"Please do."

Roy texted her the most recent contact he had for Mia. "She'll help you prepare."

"Thank you." Lucina stood in front of him and bowed deeply.

Stunned, he had no choice but to return the gesture.

She straightened up, brushing strands of dark hair out of her face. Her smile was overwhelmingly sad. "I'm just not ready for this to be over."

"I know what you mean."

"I feel like we just met."

"We'll meet again."

"Promise?"

"Well..."

"Just lie and make me feel better."

"Okay. Yeah. I'll see you out there. This isn't the end. It's just another beginning."

"Thank you, Sensei."

The train pulled into the station. He watched as she boarded. On her back, she carried her sword, sealed in a black case.

She waved at him. He did the same, just before the doors closed and the train rolled out.

The sun was bright, but the air was cold. Roy walked home alone.

He got into bed and lay down for a while. Let it all wash over him. Summer was over. He had some choices to make.

The decision came more quickly than he thought possible.

He picked up the phone and called Snake.

* * *

_do you remember  
_ _how you turned to sorrow  
_ _is the blame mine  
_ _or ours_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last call of the day, smoking american spirits under long overarching branches. Parked at the side of the road, an ordinary city neighborhood, just off a main street, quiet enough to be a prime bike riding and dog walking spot. Standing, leaning, on the driver's side door, open, watching leaves fall. Partner doing paperwork. Blowing cigarette smoke into the sky of haze, dusty and heavy from the wildland fires to the north, the south, the east. We've seen it before, the ash and embers in the sky. But now it feels like we are trapped from all sides. A man passes by on the sidewalk, wearing an industrial N95, walking his dog, a small ecstatic pug. The circle tightens.
> 
> Partner is quiet for the first time since our shift began. With my head tilted up, to throw the smoke away from the front cabin, I notice a plane flying low. Not the commercial passenger jets we're used to seeing. Its white belly shape is different. An airtanker, I realize, waterbomber.
> 
> There is work to be done, things that need to be said, battles that need to be fought, and my oath of silence does little to quell the clashes in my mind. Physical labor is draining. Mental labor is too. For now, we only have these small moments. In chaos, I am most alive. And so, on and on. Into the fire.
> 
> We go.
> 
> \- El Nino (08/21/20)


	5. Chapter 5

_Before we packed our bags  
_ _And left all this behind us in the dust  
We had a place we could call home  
And a life no one could touch_

\- Rise Against  
"Prayer of the Refugee"

* * *

Serves You Right

* * *

What Snake didn't know about Roy was how the whole business had gone down in the capitol, at the very end of the war.

Running from the palace, into an open field. Running in royal cloth and cape. A target might as well have been painted on his back. Roy, not yet fourteen, called in to perform the duty he'd been born to perform. To draw enemy fire while the royal family made their escape.

The soldiers shot him down from the road.

He hit the dirt and lay there, face down. He kept his breathing shallow. Kept his eyes half closed, half open. Blood pooled on the ground beneath him. There was a chance he would die. The odds were against him surviving. But Roy didn't move. He had no choice but to play dead.

Under the aristocratic clothes, stiff navy blue and silver with gold trim, he wore a special skin tight body suit that his mother had acquired from a foreign dealer, at great cost. It was a lightweight black material capable of stopping small arms fire. It could not stop armor piercing rounds, but the fibers had been designed to seal and compress wounds to minimize tissue damage and stop hemorrhaging.

They'd had no reason to believe that it worked as it was supposed to, and testing it would have limited its use. But out of desperation, a mother's love and will prevailed.

As Roy lay belly down in the grass, he felt the suit compressing over his wounds. The bleeding stopped. He hoped there was enough of his blood on the ground to fool them into thinking he was dead.

The suit did nothing for the pain. Tears welled up and spilled over. But he couldn't cry out. He kept silent. He waited. Took shallow breaths. And waited.

Roy was shot in the afternoon. A small group of enemy soldiers came up to check him. His had slowed his heart rate at that point to something undetectable by touch. But they never bothered with that. They didn't want to handle a corpse any more than they had to. They rolled him onto his back. Someone snapped a picture with a camera. Then they walked away and left him.

Roy didn't move. He lay motionless under the sun. Even as insects crept into his hair. Even as bombs fell in the distance and gunshots rang out nearby.

He was shot in the afternoon. But it was well into the evening before soldiers came to drag him into a shallow grave. He had been lying still for hours.

They threw him into a freshly dug pit on top of a pile of other bodies. The dead cushioned his fall. The soldiers began to shovel dirt over the hole.

Still, Roy didn't move. Dirt filled the crevices of his clothes, got into his eyes and hair. He wedged his nose and mouth under the arm of a corpse, using the dead hand to make a small air pocket so that he could breathe.

He waited. The sun was setting. He knew they were tired from a day of killing. When darkness fell, they'd want to stop and rest.

He was right. With the mass grave barely covered, the soldiers picked up their tools and hurried away. No matter how tough they were, they didn't want to be near a heap of dead bodies at night. Even if they were the killers and dealers of all that death.

As the sounds of them and their trucks grew faint, Roy waited, in the dark, under a thin layer of dirt, held in the embrace of his dead countrymen. As night settled in, the killing field fell silent, the world still trembling from its destruction, a city in ruins, the air heavy with smoke and gunpowder. Roy lay in place for a few more hours.

And then, slowly, he reached out and started to pull himself from the grave. He moved in tune to the sway of the grass in the wind, moved with it so that he would not stand out. It took a while, but he emerged from the hole, staying low on the ground. He shed his top layer of clothing, the costume of a decoy, and left it in the grave. He kept under the height of the grass and crawled away, flat against the earth.

The palace was a small thing on the horizon, the lights of its gates still illuminated. A column of smoke rose from the center of its rooftop. It had been set ablaze.

Roy moved at a creep, under moonlight. The burning palace shrank in the distance. He stopped and listened, from all sides and overhead, confirmed no vehicles or people. Then he rose to half height and walked. Slowly. So as not to catch attention.

The palace and the fire were well behind him when he finally took up a jog. Guided by the map of stars above him, he eventually fell into a full run.

He ran without stopping until the first light of dawn.

* * *

The transit station smelled like weed and urine and an in depth analysis of the human condition. Roy stepped around the rotten food containers scattered across the floor and took his voucher to the ticket counter.

They put him on a bus with tourists and families on vacation. A few wore Smash tournament t-shirts. Others were headed to different attractions in the same area. There were children and grandparents.

Roy was one of the few who had come alone. All he had for luggage was a single gym bag, slung over his shoulder. It fit into the space under his seat.

He tugged the hood of his jacket up over head. No one recognized him. He was content with that.

He put on headphones and went over orientation material on a tablet that Snake had given him. Sort of a welcoming gift. Roy had taken it apart earlier and removed the locator chip.

In his pocket he had his pain pills, dosage lessened to half his usual.

"Is this seat taken?"

Roy glanced up. A formidable stranger, in blue jeans and a red jacket, smiled openly and pointed at the empty aisle seat. He wore a red cap over a long blond ponytail. Roy gestured that the seat was free and shifted his eyes back to the tablet screen.

The man took the seat next to him. Roy tilted toward the window to avoid making physical contact. They were shoulder to shoulder. The man's bicep muscle claimed most of the arm rest between them. And Roy too, after a summer of training, took up more space that he used to.

Roy didn't need to ask where the stranger was going.

This was a pro fighter sitting next to him. A new challenger. Tournament bound. Must not have had a very good agent if he was taking the bus though.

Roy's only excuse for boarding this rolling freak show was so that he could dodge airport security.

He switched the app on the tablet to a puzzle game, hoping to avoid conversation. Fortunately, his seat mate leaned back in the chair, pulled his red baseball cap over his face, and dozed quietly as the bus rolled out.

The trip would be several hours long. They kept to the slow lane, the coast to their right. The waters were clear, waves slow and easy. Roy watched it all run by him, tuning out the chatter of the other passengers.

A text came through on his phone. It was a number not in his contacts.

_\- Which one should I wear?_

Two images followed. Both different sets of clothes laid out on a white mattress. The first was a navy blue uniform. The second was the same uniform in black, with a red cape.

Roy made a quick choice.

_\- red and black_

A follow up question came next:

\- _What about these?_

Side by side on a marble counter top. Two headpieces. One gold. One red.

_\- go with the red_

_\- Ok. Thanks._

_\- no prob_

_\- I hope you'll have time to watch the fights this year._

_\- i'll try to catch highlights_

_\- I have an exhibition match after the opening ceremony, if you're interested. It's on the free live stream._

_\- yeah. i'll be watchin. good luck ba..._

He stopped and deleted the last word. Some things just rolled off like they belonged there. Like time hadn't passed. Like someone hadn't changed his number and severed the line between them for the past year.

But, somehow, every time, right around tournament season, that line suddenly opened back up again. Roy had only ever had one number.

Seven minutes lapsed while Roy tried to think of a good substitute pet name that didn't sound overbearing and desperate. He came up with nothing and so left it at "good luck" and hit send.

The message showed as delivered but not read.

He considered what to do with the new number. He could add it to the list on the same contact, set it as the default so as not to confuse it with the rest, even though the rest probably weren't valid anymore.

The last conversation, under the old number, had ended with Roy.

_\- if thats hw its gon b then thats how its gon b_

He didn't bother to scroll through the rest of it. He didn't remember their last exchange. It didn't matter anymore, did it?

He added the new number to Marth's profile, and after a moment of thought deleted the others. He went through the camera roll to try and find a more recent picture to attach to it. Roy didn't take pictures much. He had a few group shots with Mac and Lucina saved in there. Apparently Snake had also snapped one of Roy throwing up into a gas station toilet on a particularly bad night.

Snake was a special kind of asshole.

It didn't take long to come across the shots he'd saved of Marth.

Nothing dirty or scandalous. The unofficial fan-appointed princess of Smash just happened to be photogenic. And Roy'd had enough chaotic neutral in him to try and catch His Royal Highness slipping up.

Never did catch him with a single hair out of place though. Not even while sleeping or eating. Not even before, during, or after -

Roy shook his head to stop that image from forming. There were better ways of getting kicked off a bus full of kids and old people than as the guy with an unexplained raging boner. And all over an old memory of his ex.

Well, they weren't exactly exes. They were just planets in orbit. Sometimes close, sometimes far. But each one always caught in the gravitational pull of the other.

None of the pictures on his phone were of the two of them together. Except for one. Marth had taken it. After Roy's acceptance party. At the hotel room. Lying next to each other. Still fully clothed, though Roy's tie was missing and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. Trying not to make noise in a room full of passed out guests. Marth had gone for the selfie. The camera had caught Marth at just the right angle but had hit Roy like a gremlin crawling out of the gutter at 2 AM. Seemed like the sort of shot Marth would take and save on someone else's phone.

He commanded the center stage, and everything else just revolved around him.

Judged as a prince, expected to maintain that appearance. He kept his own personal stylist and a fashion consultant. Drove one of those all electric vehicles. Filed his taxes on time every year. Liked his breakfast with the proper food groups laid out in exact proportions. Wouldn't be caught dead at a cheap burger joint or a local taco truck...

...unless it was after midnight and Roy had brought him there with the promise of tortas and spicy carrots. Then he'd finish off two bags of chips with the meal and tip the servers twice the cost of everything.

And leave his cape over a homeless man sleeping on a park bench.

And take off running through the rain, following the faint notes of a song he'd heard over the downpour, a woman's voice, singing words in an ancient language, one he had left behind in the old country.

Roy had chased after him, found him standing alone in the middle of an empty street, confused, shaking, unable to hear the song anymore, unsure if it had been just a product of his own imagining.

And Roy had wondered if they were all like goldfish, trying to retrace steps back to a past distorted by time and memory. No one had ever thought to give them space to grieve their cultures lost.

That too was Marth, a part of him. Suffering underneath his own outward show of control. Marth, who planned his life in advance. Who indulged in the frivolous comforts of brand name clothes and weekend spa treatments.

Who gave away a third of his tournament earnings to charity. And cried over the death of a stray cat he'd been caring for. And got his hands dirty burying it under a tree.

Who had tried to convince Roy to give up the drinking. Especially when things weren't going right. And had walked away when he got tired of cleaning up the mess every time.

The picture of him that Roy finally settled on had been taken on a bridge. Marth, arms folded against the railing, leaning forward over it, eyes fixed on some point in the distance. It'd been sunset.

He'd been talking to Roy about dying again.

Talking as if they'd outlived their purpose. As if their lives didn't belong to them. As if living was just another form of punishment.

And that had brought Roy back to the grave of his homeland. Buried him again under the corpses of allies and enemies.

So he'd held out a hand, an offering, and felt Marth take it, hesitantly, and pulled him away. Away from the bridge. And kept holding on to him as they walked. Through the worst part of town. Head up. Eyes forward. Switch blade in his fist. Marching like he had as a child soldier. Daring anyone, _anyone,_ to step up. But no one did. No one ever did. Something about his eyes they didn't like.

Or maybe the ghost of his mother had always walked with him.

Roy saved that picture to Marth's profile and slipped his phone back into his pocket. His neighbor was still sound asleep, and Roy figured to do the same. He slouched in his seat and turned toward the window, catching one last glimpse of the shoreline as it passed.

The waters looked more turbulent now.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

The message was still unread a couple hours later, when they pulled into a rest stop.

Roy filed out with the other passengers.

The facilities were decently clean. Roy had seen far worse.

He came out of the bathroom and into the rest station's convenience store. He walked in to the sound of yelling, insults thrown, angry words. Found the stricken faces of other passengers, the staff falling back behind the counter. A scuffle had broken out between some customers. And it was escalating into an all out brawl.

Fists swinging. Bodies falling.

And in the middle of it, Blondie in the red cap, proving his tournament readiness by thoroughly destroying the site of someone's business and livelihood.

Roy ducked as a shelf toppled and the other onlookers scattered.

This wasn't his fight. He had no fucking interest in the outcome. No matter how it started. It was time to bone out.

Roy slid toward the nearest exit.

He'd almost made it to the door when the girl pulled out an arm cannon.

A fucking. Arm. Cannon. In the middle of a fist fight. In the middle of a convenience store.

Roy did fast calculus on the level of stupid involved in that choice, just as the girl used her prosthetic arm to deflect a wrench someone had thrown at Blondie. But Roy couldn't even be mad at the guy who threw it.

At this point he wanted to throw wrenches at both of them.

But then someone tried to grab the girl from behind.

Without thinking, Roy lunged forward and tackled her attacker into a tower of beer cans. The cans tumbled over and cracked open against the floor. The other man landed under Roy, stunned from the fall. Roy pulled himself off the guy, and the injured man struggled out of the spray of beer. Staggering, he scrambled out the door. Roy didn't even bother to give chase.

He stood up, wiping damp bangs out of his face, drenched in alcohol.

He turned around to find the other two fighters, back to back, surrounded by piles of defeated enemies.

The two had enough time to grin at each other like fools before Roy stepped up, right in their faces. He smacked the red cap off the guy's head. When the girl pointed her arm weapon at him, he slapped it out of the way.

"Listen," he said, "you _fucking_ idiots. Are you both trying to get arrested?"

"It wasn't - "

"They were the ones - "

"Shut up. Seriously. You're both headed to the tournament, yeah?"

"Yeah, I mean - "

"How did you - "

"Fucking listen to me. You all know you could get disqualified for this type of shit, right?"

"Uh, really?"

"But it wasn't our - "

"No one. Literally no one. Gives a shit what your excuse is. The organizers will _can_ you the second you hurt the image of the brand, got it?"

"Are you sure - "

"How do you even - "

" _Trust_ me. I know, okay? Take it from a guy who's been there."

They both stared back at him.

"So what do we - "

"How can - "

"Stop. Just stop. Both of you."

Roy turned around, toward the counter, intending to try to repair things with the staff. Instead, he caught a broom, full swing, to the skull. It almost knocked him completely over. He straightened up slowly, blinking stars out of his eyes.

A hammering pain radiated from his left temple.

The blurry image in front of him settled down. An old man wielding the broom like a lethal weapon. The name tag on his shirt said -

"Chen?"

" _GET OUT OF MY STORE!"_

"How many stores do you have?"

"A lot. NOW GET OUT!"

The bell jingled on the door as Roy shoved the other two fighters through it. Outside, police sirens sounded off in the distance.

Roy hissed under his breath and dropped down to sit on the edge of the curb.

The other two just stood there and looked at each other.

"Guess that got a little out of hand."

"It was their fault to begin with!"

Roy snapped. "Will you two get on the fucking ground before the cops get here?"

"Why?"

"What's the pur - "

Roy grabbed both of them by their belts and yanked them bodily to the ground.

"Hey!"

"What are - "

"Have you dumbasses never been arrested before?"

"No."

"Never hav - "

"Maybe you both should shut up and let me do the talking then."

He was met with a blank stare and a shrug.

The sirens got louder. Red and blue lights flashed on the main road. Roy shook his head. This wasn't how he had expected things to go.

After a moment of silence, Blondie gave his companions a look over. He offered a small smile. "We might as well introduce ourselves, right?"

"Min Min," the girl said, waving her arm...thing.

"Hey, Min Min. I'm Terry."

Roy tilted his head back to stare into the sun. Maybe if he did it for long enough he'd go blind, and he wouldn't have to _see_ the stupid.

_You should get back into Smash,_ they said. _It'd be fun,_ they said. _One last hurrah,_ they said.

_What do you have to lose?_ they said...

Roy looked away from the sky. "I'm no one," he mumbled.

"Got it."

"Nice to meet you, No One."

Roy poured out an uncertain number of pills into his palm and swallowed them dry.

_Just who were they calling the master of disaster these days?_

* * *

_Don't hold me up now  
_ _I can stand my own ground  
I don't need your help now_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 12:57AM, and they're doing donuts down the street from my house, and I kind of want to go out there and break their arms.

_We are the angry and the desperate,_   
_The hungry and the cold,_   
_We are the ones who kept quiet,_   
_And always did what we were told_

\- Rise Against  
"Prayer of the Refugee" 

* * *

Perfect Weather for a Head Wound

* * *

On the day he should have died, Roy fled his destiny.

The morning after, a group of soldiers caught him near the border. He dove into the grass when they fired at him.

He wasn't fast enough. Trying to get up to face them, he ended up staring down the barrels of their rifles.

Fingers on the triggers. One of them spitting orders at him. _Get up._ He was as good as dead. He tried to think of something to say, but he was out of breath.

Out of time.

_Sorry, mom, I tried -_

But behind the soldiers, the tall grass listed against the wind.

None of the men saw the lioness on her approach.

Her sword cut down the man nearest to her. When the other two noticed, she was already moving on them. Her blade slashed through one soldier's arm, cutting off the hand that held his rifle. The next cut decapitated him. That same cut also opened the artery on the last man's throat. He didn't have time to aim the gun before she brought the blade down again, severing both of his forearms. The final strike was the mercy kill that separated his head from his body.

Three men lay dead in the field. None of them were Roy. Though one looked to have been about his age.

She held still for a moment. She surveyed her surroundings. Then she signaled with one hand. Two other figures rose up in the grass. Allies.

Roy stood up, legs shaky. Before he could say anything, she had swooped in and wrapped him in a tight embrace.

He held her too. It was strange to be alive. Over the years, his mind would return to that field where he had seen her kill for the first time. He would wonder what it would have been like to have died back there. To fall and not get up.

Their medic assessed and tended to his injuries. The tactical suit had performed as it was supposed to. It had saved him.

She kissed his cheek. He could see that her eyes were wet. Then she pulled back and handed him a machete. They had to keep moving.

He was no longer a child. He was a man now. He had to protect her too.

"Never leave my side," she told him.

"I won't," he said.

* * *

He'd learn more about himself and his lineage some time later, years later, through the eyes of foreign anthropologists and scientists.

What they called magic was actually a mechanism of hectic physiology. It was written in the genes of his mother's bloodline, an adaptation to an unforgiving environment. As a result of generations of life that struggled at the very margins of destruction, the children who survived the cull of each winter would grow on into spring, but grew meaner, a code now written in their blood.

Their bodies had been bred by circumstance to heal from wounds that would kill others born to kinder ecosystems. Their tissue self-repaired at rapid rates. Their bones could withstand trauma of incredible force. Their organs broke down toxins and neutralized poisons, including those that leaked from chemical bombs that their enemies dropped from the sky.

"You were born with an advantage," Snake told him. "There are things you can do that others can't."

"I'm not special," Roy said. "It's just luck. It's biology. I had no say in it."

"No one does. But it's an arsenal you own. You can use it to shape the future."

"Look, man, I don't have any solutions to the world's problems. I'm not a guy who knows a whole lot, okay?"

"Do you like the way things are?"

"What do you think?"

"You can either spend your life being angry about it, or you can change it. That's a choice you make everyday."

* * *

A motorcycle was the first unit to pull up. The emblem on the side of the bike identified it as private security. He wore the full uniform, vest, and belt of military police, strapped like he was going to war.

Some beefed up rent-a-cop bullshit, Roy figured. They were deep inside Smash town. He was already starting to guess how it would all be going down.

Terry looked over at Min Min and said, "Maybe you could try acting cute. They might just let us go."

But as soon as those black boots hit the pavement, Roy noticed an all too familiar strut. And a world famous jawline under the helmet and visor.

"Fucking shit."

Terry glanced at Roy. "Hm?"

"You're the one who should try acting cute."

"Um...what?"

_It won't save you,_ Roy thought, _but it might save the rest of us._

The officer planted himself in front of the group. He loomed over all three of them. But his face, the fraction of it that they could see, seemed to zoom in on Roy.

"You," he said.

Roy gave a mock salute. "Nice to see you, Captain. Didn't expect to run into you at your day job."

"You need to try harder, Roy."

"Doin' my best out here."

"Your best ain't shit. Who are your friends?"

"Eh, you know, just a couple of innocent bystanders who happened to get caught up with some thugs. Speaking of...you might want to call an ambulance. There are people hurt back there."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised. Do you ever get tired of fucking up, Roy?"

"Hey, I figure, one day I'll get it right."

"Don't think that day's coming any time soon." Captain looked over the other two. "All right, who started this mess?"

Eyes lowered, face half hidden by the brim of his hat, Terry raised his hand. Min Min glanced at him before doing the same.

_Solidarity,_ Roy thought. _How sweet._

He pointed to Terry.

He'd been raised differently.

Captain glared at the three of them in turn, lingering the longest on the blonde in the red cap.

But when he reached down with two gloved hands, it was Roy that he grabbed by the collar and lifted up. Before anyone else could react, Captain pitched Roy into the air, flinging him up over the motorcycle and launching him straight into the side of a dumpster.

Roy bounced off the steel wall and landed in a heap on the ground. Face down in the concrete, he lay stunned and motionless for a while.

"That's what I think of liars," Falcon said.

Min Min quipped back, "Isn't this police brutality?"

"You wanna join him?"

"No, sir, I do not."

"Then I don't need your commentary."

Roy picked himself up. It should have hurt a lot more, but he was on pain meds. Strong ones. He dusted off his pants.

Terry tried to intervene with Falcon. "You can't just do that!"

"Does it look like _you're_ the one in trouble?"

"No...but - "

"Then keep quiet unless you want to be."

"That's not how the law works."

"You're in _my_ jurisdiction, sweetheart." The Captain turned to stare down Roy across the broken asphalt.

Roy hunched over, laughing.

"Something funny?"

"Are we about to fight?"

"What do you think?"

"Okay. Just che - "

A full powered Falcon Kick came at him. Roy was slow on the dodge. He caught it in the side. It slammed him into the wall of the dumpster for a second time.

He barely recovered before Falcon hit him with the Knee. Everything went fuzzy and dark. A fist pummeled him so hard his teeth rattled. Roy coughed up something warm and wet.

Training and muscle memory got his guard up, even though he had the mental capacity of a zombie in that moment. He took a few more hits before Falcon needed to take a breath. Roy stole that fraction of a second to grapple with the man. Tried to grab him and throw him, but Falcon locked arms with Roy instead. The struggle was brief before Roy's head banged off the dumpster again. Falcon's elbow nearly dislocated his jaw.

Roy sank to his knees. Blood running down his chin. This wasn't a fight. It was just a beat down.

"Still trash..." Falcon noted.

"Hey!" That was Terry Bogard. Again. Trying to come in between them. "You've made your point."

"This has nothing to do with you."

"I'm not just going to stand here and watch it happen."

Min Min was moving in next to Terry. A surprising show of loyalty between strangers.

Roy pushed himself off the the ground. A little dizzy. But okay.

"Hey..."

The others kept going on as if he wasn't there.

"You best get out of the way," Falcon warned the other two. Or maybe just Terry. "I'd rather not bruise up your pretty little face."

Roy tried again. "Hey!"

"I'd like to see you do it, old man."

Roy made a fist and hammered it against the side of the dumpster. The dull hard clang got their attention. His fist left a dent in the rusted steel surface.

He shook his head. That was a whole lot of tetanus he could have just gotten.

To Falcon, Roy jutted his chin out. "You wanna finish this?"

"You look about finished already."

"I'm still standing, asshole."

"You won't be for long."

"Then why don't you show me your played-out-busted-up-stale-ass-broke-down-geriatric-rusty-ass mov - "

A phone went off. It was Roy's. He fished it out of a pocket.

He squinted at the name and picture on the screen. Hit the green button and put it to his ear.

He held up a finger at Falcon. Just a minute.

His lips were numb, and blood splattered on the screen as he spoke.

"Uh, hey..."

On the other side of the line came a voice he hadn't heard in a while.

"Roy...?"

His heart thumped hard. Blood poured back to his face. The numbness and confusion fell off. He was suddenly grounded. The universe came back into sharp focus.

"Yeah, babe, it's me. Something wrong?"

Easy to picture what it looked like on the other side. A little bit of worry in that voice. Was probably tilting his head to the side in that disgustingly cute way he always did whenever he was unsure about something.

"No... I just..."

Roy swayed hard to the left as Falcon's fist flew past his head. It beat another dent into the dumpster. The other fist swung low at his gut. Roy danced and circled right, just out of reach.

"I'm sorry, Roy."

"What?"

Impossible. He never...

Guard up, Roy took another hit, and countered. Kicked Falcon back. Dropped low under another punch. That fist dug a hole in the brick wall behind him. He swept Falcon's legs. Made him stagger. Hit him twice in the face.

"I'm sorry we haven't talked."

Roy took hold of the lip of the dumpster and hoisted himself up. Tried to put space between them. But like a bitch on wheels, Falcon jumped up and followed.

"Roy?"

"Uh..."

He made the leap to the roof of the building.

"Is this a bad time?"

"No. No. Cool to hear from you."

Another punch barely missed him. This time when he swept the legs, Falcon went down. Roy fell on top of his back. Tried to put him in a choke hold. He only had one free arm to do it with.

"Will you be watching the fight tonight?"

Roy struggled as Falcon tried to out wrestle him. "Yeah," he got out. "I will."

"Please. If you can. I want you to. Right now, I have to go, a lot to get ready for, but..."

Falcon rolled over on top of him. Roy, still at Falcon's back, tried to secure the hold. He was almost out of breath. "Yeah?"

"I want to see you sometime."

"Me too."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Falcon rammed an elbow into Roy's chest. Roy stifled a grunt of pain.

"All right. So, until then, please, take care of yourself."

"Yeah...I will..."

"Thank you. We'll talk later, okay?"

"Yeah. For sure."

The call ended.

Falcon threw another elbow. It landed just as hard as the first. Roy choked, lost all the air in his lungs. He dropped the phone. He punched Falcon in the face. Then he groped around with his hand until he found the phone again and slid it back into his pocket.

In that second, Falcon got out of the hold. He went to grab Roy, and Roy grabbed him back.

Locked together they both rolled over again. Only to find that they had run out of roof space. They both went tumbling over the edge.

Fell from the roof.

And landed in the dumpster.

In a daze, Roy stared up at the sky. On a heap of garbage. Everything hurt, but he was okay.

Falcon yanked him up by the front of his shirt, fist cocked back. Roy could see himself reflected in the visor of the helmet.

"Disappointing," Falcon said. "You're still a low-tier hack job."

Roy grinned through the blood and hurt. "You still mad?"

"About what?"

"He blew me first."

Falcon's fist knocked his head sideways. Hurt like a mother. But it didn't take him out.

"You need help," Falcon spat at him.

Roy smiled. He threw his head back and laughed.

Falcon hit him again. And again. But Roy didn't stop laughing.

It felt good. It felt like old times.

Falcon was the same good ol' bastard he'd always been.

Then the dumpster rumbled. Metal clanked against metal. Gears and hydraulics went off. A diesel engine was idling near. And suddenly the dumpster rose into the air and began to tilt.

Falcon let go of Roy without ceremony and jumped out.

"Shit!"

Roy pulled himself over the edge and dropped ungracefully to the pavement. Bottles and other trash tumbled out on top of him.

The dumpster had been lifted up by the prongs of a garbage truck. The driver of the truck fell out of his seat, onto the ground, laughing maniacally.

"Beautiful! Wahahaha!"

Roy shook debris out of his hair. He got to his feet.

"You should have seen both of your faces!"

Falcon walked over and kicked Waluigi in the side.

"Ouch! That hurts, you know!"

Falcon kicked him again.

Roy watched silently. They were deep in Smash territory. He should have anticipated this.

Falcon pulled the skinny man up and threw him against the side of the dump truck.

"Hey! Don't get mad at me! I was just doing what she - "

"Captain."

The voice came from behind them. Roy turned around, noticed that a gold car had pulled up. And standing in front of it...

Arms crossed, stone faced. One of the old guard. The only one who ever gave orders to Falcon.

"Don't give me more paperwork than I already have," she said.

Falcon let go of Waluigi.

She went on, "Go inside and get a report from the store clerks. They were the ones who called us here to begin with."

The Captain just grunted in response. With a dismissive wave of the hand, he turned his back on his latest target and marched into the store. Waluigi made a face at his retreating back.

Samus Aran settled her eyes on Roy next. He wiped blood from his chin with the back of his hand.

"Hey, Chief," he said. "Good to see you."

"You look like shit, Roy."

"Yeah, well, your subordinate likes to solve problems by punching them."

"Maybe you should stop being his problem."

"Hey, I'm trying."

"What happened? I heard you weren't ever coming back."

"I'm just a spectator this time."

"That's not like you."

He shrugged. "Things change?"

"Explain it to me after we sort this shit out."

"Yeah, about that one, I swear I didn't start it."

She nodded. "You rarely do. But I know you always finish it."

* * *

Her car seated four. She had an assistant with her, a girl that Roy didn't recognize. So there were two open seats left. The bus had long gone, leaving their bags behind on the side of the road.

The three of them had been booked at county and released on bail.

All in all, it wasn't the worst thing Roy had ever been through. At least this time he had bail money and the promise of a ride.

Samus offered the space in her car to him and Min Min, which left Terry to hitch on the back of Falcon's motorcycle. Which made Roy cringe. But it was either that or go in Waluigi's garbage truck.

Roy would have suggested the garbage truck.

"Maybe we should switch up that arrangement?" he said to Samus.

"What's wrong?"

"We all know what's wrong. It's Falcon."

But that didn't deter Terry from getting on the bike behind the Captain. Min Min waved him off enthusiastically. Terry saluted her with two fingers.

Falcon started the engine. "You better hold on tight, buttercup."

"Wha - "

Captain hit the throttle, and Terry nearly lost his hat on take off. The bike tore out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

Roy watched them go in dismay.

"You can't just hand off fresh meat to him like that."

"It'll be fine," Samus said. "He won't do anything. He needs both hands to drive."

"You'd be surprised at the kind of tricks he can pull."

"I'll deal with the consequences if there are any."

The doors lifted on her car.

"It looks like a spaceship!" Min Min exclaimed.

"Yeah, I guess it does." Samus had a soft spot for newcomers.

But when Min Min walked up to the car, she came to a sudden stop.

"Oh, it's you!"

Already in the backseat was a girl, arms crossed, looking away out the opposite window. She said nothing, but she didn't look happy.

Min Min took her in consideration. Then, without another word, she turned and ran for Waluigi's truck as it rolled past. She jumped and latched onto the passenger side door handle.

"Bye, Roy!"

She waved at him and climbed into the seat. She pulled her orange beanie snugly over her yellow doll cut hair. She did not seem put off by any of the recent setbacks in the least.

Some sort of strange optimism. Roy was not used to it.

Waluigi looked at Samus, who gave him a go-ahead motion. He shrugged and turned the truck onto the road.

"What was that about?" Roy asked.

Samus let out a sigh. "Rivalry," she said. "Get in. You've got shotgun if you want."

"Might as well."

She drove like a demon. But the car barely let out a whisper.

The coast had given way to flat desert. Mountains rose up in the distance. The sun had just dropped below the horizon.

"So I take it no one got disqualified today," he said.

"That's not my call. I just send in the report. The board of directors makes the decision. But the security footage backs up your side of the story. It looked like self-defense. No serious injuries that we know of. The board will compensate the business for their damages. You'll all have lawyers for your court dates."

"It's gonna be on the news."

"It's already online. Several people filmed it as it happened."

"Well. Shit."

"The PR department will have to find a way to handle it."

"It's nothing worse than I ever did."

"Yeah, well, you set the bar pretty high."

"What can I say, I'm an overachiever."

"The first aid kit's in the glove compartment."

"What? Nah, I'm cool."

"You look like you got hit by a train, Roy."

"It was just the Falcon Knee."

"Yeah, so put a cold pack on it before it swells. You're in my car. It's a liability for me too."

"Fine."

He did as she said. Ice against his face, he checked his reflection in the pull down visor mirror. She wasn't wrong. He looked like the victim of a mauling.

Behind them, in the backseat, the girl was staring at her phone. Her platinum hair rolled off her shoulders in long twin coils. Her legs crossed in black spandex, white gem studded high heels catching the light as she tapped her foot.

"Samus," she said, "it's going over kind of badly."

"How badly?"

"Well, I'm reading these comments. People aren't liking what they're seeing. They think our people are at fault. And I don't think I can have the footage pulled. There are too many videos up."

Roy sighed. "So, our guys, they didn't start it. But they went all out. And they smiled while they were doing it. They didn't need to do that. Makes us all look like sociopaths."

"Technically," Samus said, "that's not my problem. I don't work public relations. But, keep tabs on it."

"All right. I'll keep you updated."

Roy turned to Samus. "That's new. You got yourself a nice assistant."

"She's a trainee. Don't get it twisted, Roy."

Roy looked over his shoulder. "Welcome to Smash. Hope you get in for the next one."

"Twintelle," Samus said, "meet Roy."

"I'm Roy," he echoed.

"I know who you are."

"Really? I was hoping people had forgotten my face."

"You leave a definite impression."

"By that, I hope you only mean good things."

"Uh." She laughed a little. "I've seen that video of you curb stomping some guys behind a bowling alley."

"Oh. Sounds like you got security clearance. You probably have dirt on everyone in this tournament."

"Something like that."

To Samus, he said, "Where did you find this girl?"

"None of your business."

"I like her."

"She's out of your league."

"I know. But let me buy her a drink sometime."

Twintelle cut in, "I was under the impression that you had given up drinking."

"Is that the word on the street?"

"I've heard things, here and there."

"Did you hear anything else about me?"

"To be honest, they don't talk about you much anymore."

"That's fine. I don't want them to talk about me."

"But I saw something yesterday."

"Okay. Let's hear it."

"There's a rumor that you're making a comeback."

Roy shook his head. "That's a lie."

"Then why are you here?"

"Just here for a good time."

"Hm. I don't buy that."

"I'm keeping a promise to a friend."

"Okay. I'll take that one. That sounds more real to me."

"I try."

It was all he could do.

* * *

_But we've been sweating_   
_While you slept so calm_   
_In the safety of your home._   
_We're been pulling out the nails_   
_That hold up everything you've known_


	7. Chapter 7

_So open your eyes, child  
_ _ Let's be on our way  
_ _ Broken windows and ashes  
_ _ Are guiding the way _

\- Rise Against  
"Prayer of the Refugee"

* * *

Lean in with Your Jaw

* * *

Their fights had always had earth-shattering potential. But their last match would turn out to be soft, anticlimatic, with no extravagant eruptions or broken furniture.

Marth refused to break. Ever. But Roy always knew when it got to that point. Knew that tipping point. And then the Master of Disaster rose up again, ran into the minefield like it was a victory lap.

"Hit me," he said. Just to push that nuclear button.

Marth only shook his head, no. Backing away. Done with it. Done with Roy. Done with all of it.

But Roy was persistent. "Make that hand into a fist and hit me. You know you want to."

He backed Marth into the wall and crowded him in until it finally happened.

Roy took a fist to the face.

It would have hurt more if Marth had actually known how to throw a punch. Sword fighting wasn't the same as empty hand fighting. But the hit had stung Roy enough that he shut up for a bit.

Marth pushed past him, made it out the door and halfway down the hall before Roy had the sense to go in pursuit.

Caught up with him in the parking lot. Tried to bring him back inside, but he pulled away. And kept walking. Until Roy got in front of him.

Trying to reason with him. Late night. Bad neighborhood. You left your keys and your phone inside. I'll take you to the train station in the morning. Okay?

The prostitutes who worked on the corner stared at both of them.

Roy had a feeling he was about to get beaten down with a sock full of quarters.

One of the girls finally came over.

Her ash blond hair was all done up. She wore a turquoise dress and matching heels. Looked like she was making more money than Roy. And she didn't need to pay taxes on it either.

"You know," she said to Roy, "I don't think he wants to go anywhere with you, and he doesn't have to if he doesn't want to."

"Don't you have a dick to go suck or something?"

"How is that any different than what you do for free?"

Fair point, but he wasn't going to let that slide.

"I most likely don't have a yeast infection."

That one got him in a bit of trouble. She swung something at him, looked like some old school car antenna, a slender metal wand. He dodged out of reach. It didn't look like it could do much damage anyway. But what he was not expecting was some bright yellow ball with eyes on it to come careening into the side of his head. It knocked him into the brick wall next to him.

He fell facedown onto the stained asphalt.

The ball hovered in midair. It seemed to sprout tiny arms and legs and do a little victory dance. Roy was struggling to understand who, what, when, why, how...?

What happened next was a blur. Several people were helping him walk. At some point he hit the ground and they dragged him the rest of the way.

He woke up on the mattress on the floor of his studio. He wasn't alone.

Seated on cushions around the coffee table were the ladies of the night who usually worked by the motel. Marth was hosting. He had made them all tea.

A faint noise came from the TV, set to a late night talk show.

Roy sat up. The ice pack on his head slid off.

The evil bitch in the blue dress waved at him. "Nice of you to join us."

"Get out of my place."

"We were invited."

"You - " He turned to Marth.

"They're your neighbors," Marth said. "I figured we should all get to know one another."

Roy had all sorts of opinions on that sentiment, but his head started hurting and he lay back down.

When he woke up next, the lights were off. The TV was tuned to an infomercial, and the women were wrapped together on the spare futon under an old blanket.

Marth was next to him. He slept on his side with a hand over Roy's heart. It was a habit of his.

Roy eased himself out of bed. He pulled the sheet up over Marth's shoulder. No matter the weather, Marth was always cold.

Marth's hand suddenly reached out and grabbed his.

Roy stopped. "It's okay," he whispered. "It's just me."

One eye opened, the other hidden behind dark blue hair. "Where are you going?"

"I'm just stepping outside."

"Why?"

"For fresh air. It'll just be a minute."

"The liquor store is closed, Roy."

"Yeah," he whispered. "I know."

The pharmacy wasn't. But he wasn't going to say that.

"So where are you going?"

"Just for a walk."

Marth didn't let go of his hand.

Roy fought to keep his voice low. "Come on. Seriously. Why you gotta be like this?"

Marth let go. He rolled over and faced the wall.

Roy started to say something, then stopped. He got up and turned toward the door. They'd settle things later, he thought.

He pulled on shoes and a jacket. He stepped out into the night.

There was a small unopened bottle with a black label on it under Marth's pillow, a limited edition sample that had come in a gift basket from a sponsor. Roy would find it later, when he came back to an empty apartment to find the sheets made, the floor swept, the trash taken out, but no one home.

He didn't know then that something had ended. It would be one of their longest goodbyes.

* * *

They had a rendezvous at another late night fuel station, this one conjoined with a small grocery store, on the outskirts of the city. One last stop for provisions. The arena was ahead of them, its lights beaming over an urban landscape of hotels, strip clubs and casinos.

They were an odd convoy: a dump truck, a motorcycle, and a gold chrome foreign import with suicide doors.

They were an odd group: prize fighters, mercenaries, and scavengers of things that people threw away.

Roy didn't know which group he belonged to. Possibly all of the above.

Under fluorescent store lights, Min Min browsed the aisles for doughnuts and ramen. Waluigi filled up a tumbler as wide as a soup bowl with burnt black coffee. Twintelle stretched her legs and went in to pick out a cup of tea at the counter. Terry disappeared into the restroom.

Samus kept track of all them through the windows as she charged her car at the port. Falcon found a quiet spot to have a cigarette.

Roy was itching for a smoke too. But they weren't cool yet, him and the Captain. And he didn't want to light up next to Samus.

He remembered the way Marth used to look at him whenever he reached for a pack of reds. That look of cold quiet disapproval.

One of the many things they just never talked about.

"Snake's been asking about you," Samus said.

Roy shrugged. "He knows how to find me."

"Do you want to be found?"

"It's fine if it happens."

"What do you know about his line of work?"

"I know about as much as everybody else."

"Then you get that it's not a game, don't you?"

Inside the store, Min Min was robbing the shelves of instant noodles.

Roy nodded. "Yeah. I know."

"Some things in life, you can't just bluff your way through. You fall off a game stage, or even out here on the streets, it's one thing. But when you go down out _there_ , out in _that_ world, it's a whole nother level. Are you ready for that?"

Terry tossed a bag of marshmallows at Min Min. She caught it, just barely, almost dropping her armful of packaged snacks.

Roy took a breath. "Only one way to find out."

Samus shook her head. "I'm not good with that answer."

"What kind of answer would you be good with?"

"You always had a lot of potential, Roy. But there were times when I came very close to telling you that this wasn't for you."

"What do you mean?"

"You looked like you were trying to put in the work to get good. But every time you got close, you just let go. I wanted to cut you loose. But he convinced me that you were worth the time _and_ the headache."

"Who?"

She tilted her head in Falcon's direction.

"Oh. Right. Okay."

"You had it for a while. Then you lost it."

"That's just the natural cycle. Right? That's how the fight goes. No one retires as champion. There's always a new challenger waiting to take over."

"No one fell from the top as hard and as fast as you did."

"Yeah. Well. I guess it was a bad time for me."

_Chasing a high rather than a win..._

"I get that," she said.

"Things are different now."

"Are they?"

"I'm not the same person I used to be."

"You sure about that?"

Waluigi made his way across the parking lot, grinning over his barrel jug of coffee. Terry caught a box of candy as it slipped out of Min Min's arms. She came to a stop so that he could set it down on the pile of food she was struggling to carry. She almost fumbled it a second time when Twintelle slipped past them, eyes on her phone.

Min Min called out after her, "Hey!"

Twintelle spun around. Hair swinging out and falling about her. Apprehension on her face. "Yeah?"

"I like your shoes!"

"Oh..." She looked down at her feet. "Uh, thanks."

"You're welcome!" Min Min bounced at her, brandishing the bag of marshmallows "Want some? It's good."

"Oh, no, thanks. I don't -"

"How about these?" Min Min thrust out a box of licorice.

"I - uh - sure, I guess." Twintelle allowed the treats to be shoved into her hands.

With a solemn nod, Min Min turned and trotted off after Waluigi and his truck.

_That's one way to soften an opponent,_ Roy thought.

To Samus, he said, "I'm not the type of person who changes easy. I don't like change. But..."

Terry gave Falcon a casual nudge. "Smoking's not good for you."

Falcon just grunted. "You can add it to my rap sheet, babycakes."

"It's different this time," Roy said to Samus. "I feel it in my blood this time. It's not just a whisper. It's not just a shadow, or an echo. It's hot. It's real. It's buzzing under my skin. The world doesn't look the same anymore. I've actually been getting up in the morning. Sounds simple, but it ain't. I think, maybe, for the first time, ever, I'm living. I'm not just slow dying. I need this job. I need this work. It's my reason to keep the fire burning. Because if I'm living, I need to live for something."

He looked at her. "You know what I mean."

Her answer was immediate. "I do."

* * *

They rolled in hot to the arena, where the crowds had gathered at the front entrance, behind security barricades. Roy felt his insides cringe. He used to want the spotlight. Now the thought of it made him want to jump out of his skin and flee the scene.

Falcon, ahead of them, signaled a turn onto a side street, blocked off by traffic cones, that led to the rear entrance. Spectators and fans had gathered there too, along with news crews.

As it turned out, pulling in with a garbage truck was the perfect cover.

Roy felt relief. But he realized it might have been a disappointing entrance for the newcomers.

Samus flashed a badge that got them waved through into a protected parking lot. She pulled into a reserved space.

"Are you ready?"

Roy shook his head. "Honestly? No. This may have been a mistake."

"It's okay to have doubts. But you're here. Might as well finish it. I didn't see you hesitate back there when Falcon was working you over."

"I'm just trying keep a promise. But if you ask me, I'd rather be elsewhere."

"Well," - the doors swung open - "you're not sleeping in my car. They've got your room ready and everything."

"I hope they didn't stick me with the wrong kind of people."

"You're kidding, right? You've got your own suite. You're one of us, Roy. Whether you like it or not."

He laughed dryly. "I don't know if that's true."

"Do you think I tell lies, Roy?"

"No. I know you don't."

"Then trust me on this one."

"If you say so."

Samus shook her head in dismay. "Sometimes I question your sense of reality."

"So do I."

The elevator that brought them up from the parking lot had a clear view of the downtown streets and its neon nightlife. Min Min bounded up to the window and pressed her hands against the glass. Terry, too, crept forward and gave the scene below an appreciative look.

Roy shouldered his gym bag, one hand in his pocket, and leaned back against the wall. The arena itself might as well have been an enemy. They had a shared history. No amount of bravado could cover up his frayed nerves. He wanted...

Something to take the edge off.

He knocked his head back against the wall a few times. No, no, no. Not that. Not again.

The doors opened to a mob of people and flashing cameras.

"What the fuck?"

Velvet rope barriers and security guards kept the crowds at bay, but they were too close for comfort for Roy.

Waluigi smirked and strutted for the cameras. Min Min smiled and waved. Terry posed for a few shots. Twintelle blew kisses at her fans.

Meanwhile, Samus had donned shades and a baseball cap. Falcon pulled the visor down on his helmet. Roy tugged the hoodie over his head. The three veterans hurried down the corridor, heads down, away from the shouts and cheers of the crowd.

"Should we wait for them?" Roy asked.

Falcon shook his head.

"Twintelle's going to help them get situated," Samus said. "She's been shadowing me, so she knows how things work around here. And anyway, they're new. Let them get the full experience. We shouldn't ruin it for them."

"Copy that."

They slipped through a side door, down another hallway, and into a service elevator. Security guards nodded at them as they passed.

Samus led the way into the main hotel, where the halls were quieter. She keyed them into a room.

Roy had grown used to hotel stays during his time in the league. But he was surprised at the accommodations.

"This is nice."

"This is your room." Samus popped open closet doors and peeked behind curtains. "Security just finished their walkthrough."

"Who arranged for this?"

"The committee, who else?"

"I'm not...you know, a headliner anymore. I don't even have an agent."

"I told you, Roy, we take care of our own."

"I...well, thank you. I appreciate it."

"They're throwing a party downstairs later. Thought you might be interested."

"I'm not that into parties."

"You used to be."

"Yeah, well, now I know better."

Falcon dropped onto the loveseat and propped his boots up on the coffee table. He clicked on the TV and popped the cork on the bottle of complimentary champagne.

"Sure, man," Roy told him with a sarcastic grin. "Just help yourself to whatever." Roy fished out a bottle of water from the offerings that had been left to chill in a bucket of ice on the table. There were other options, courtesy of their sponsors, but the water was the safest.

Falcon, meanwhile, filled himself a glass of champagne. "Go fuck yourself, short stuff."

"Same to you, old man."

"When I was younger than you, I was still better than you."

"Back when plumbers rode dinosaurs and games were played on cartridges?"

"Back when they didn't just hand out membership to the all-stars to anyone with a pretty face, an online fanbase, or paid corporate backers."

"Uh, right, I hear what you're saying. How many participants are there this time?"

"Too many."

Samus snatched the champagne bottle out of Falcon's hand and poured herself a glass. "Captain's got a bit of nostalgia for the good ol' days."

"The more the merrier?" Roy tried.

"Fuck that," Falcon retorted. "These newcomers have no respect for the game."

"Well, yeah, I mean, I get that. Those two we rode in with do seem genuine. They've got a lot of heart. But they did also started a brawl in the middle of a convenience store, so maybe they're not the brightest. They just need a bit of guidance. A good trainer would set them straight. It's nothing they can't grow out of."

Falcon let out a short bitter laugh. "Good fucking luck."

"I used to be like that. You remember, don't you, Captain?"

"You're still like that, Roy. I remember when you set your own trailer on fire."

"The AC broke and they never fixed it. That trailer deserved a fire."

"Your face deserves a fire."

"Stalest comeback in the history of stale comebacks."

"You two," Samus cut in, "never change. If you both ever quit, I'm going to have to do the same."

"Don't tell me you're as done as this ex-playa," Roy said, nodding at Falcon.

"Well..." Samus opened the blinds overlooking the city. The crowds had grown in size near the arena.

"That day comes for everyone," she continued. "We've been guarding this fire for long enough. Our commitment to this franchise means that we are tasked with training the next generation. When they're worthy, we pass the torch. That way, the fire keeps burning. It'd only die out if we held on to it."

"So are they?" Roy asked. "Are they worthy?"

"That," she said, "remains to be seen. And this tournament is all about finding out." Samus raised her glass. "For glory, gentlemen."

Falcon toasted back. "We're fucked."

Roy lifted his bottle of water.

"For glory."

* * *

He skipped the opening ceremony all together. He had wanted to watch the exhibition matches from his hotel room. But somehow, Samus convinced him to go down with her and Falcon. They had access to a VIP booth overlooking the main stage.

Roy propped himself against the railing and stood waiting. After a while, he realized that his presence had drawn attention.

A few select members of the press, and a few other special guests, had also gathered in the viewing booth. They all kept glancing his way. He saw their phones come out, and he guessed some pictures were being discreetly taken.

He tried to ignore them.

Eventually he got a message from Twintelle.

_\- Are you in sky box one?_

_\- yep_

_\- Did Samus tell you that the press has access to that one?_

_\- she said they'd be fewer here so figured I'd chill here for a bit_

_\- Your name and face have already hit the major news outlets, just to let you know_

_\- yeah ok, I'm good with it_

_\- Have you seen the comments?_

_\- no_

_\- I think you should take a look_

_\- ok_

He put the phone away. Seemed like public relations was Twintelle's thing. A good asset for show business.

But Roy was beyond caring. He knew what people used to say about him before. He could probably guess at the type of things they'd say about him now. If anyone called him a has-been they would not have been wrong. An addict. Also true. Add in anger management issues and a problem with authority. And that was a complete Roy profile.

But he hadn't come around to sell them on a redemption arc. He just had some business to take care of.

He half listened to the chatter of the sportscasters. He just wanted the announcer to start the match.

"Why hello, handsome."

He had no time to react before she slid up and latched onto his arm.

"Rosa!"

"Lina," she finished for him with a wink. That voice was deceptively perky. She wore her crown and her best dress.

"Isn't there a street corner you should be standing on?"

"No, honey, I've moved on to bigger things."

"I'm not sure this is much of a career advancement."

"Oh? I think the prospects are wonderful."

"Working for Smash is like switching pimps. They'll use you just the same."

He tried to pull away, but she only tightened her grip, laying her head on his shoulder as she did so.

"You know the press is here, right?" he said.

"Of course."

"You're making us look like...something."

"Is that a problem?"

"You're still kind of new to the scene," he told her. "You really don't want to be associated with me."

"I never hated you, Roy. We come from the same neighborhood. As far as they're concerned, we're both trash. And that's fine. We'll do it for the broken. We'll do it for the losers, those who never had much. We'll do it for all of them."

"You're drunk, aren't you, Rosa?"

"Yes." She turned fully into him then and wrapped her arms around him. She buried her face in his chest. "But you feel nice."

"Sure, okay." He hugged her back. Their animosity had faded somewhat. He held nothing against her. The tabloids could spin it however they liked. He wouldn't be around to read about it.

"I don't know why no one likes you," she mumbled into his chest. "You're a good guy."

"If you say so."

"You let us stay at your place when we were having a bad night. You didn't even know us. You cared about us."

"That's not how I remember it."

"That's exactly how it happened. I know. I was there."

"Marth was the one who - "

"I'm sorry we stole him away from you. It was a kidnapping. Really. He didn't want to go. We convinced him to do it."

"Okay."

"He couldn't take much more. He told us. You were too much for him to handle. So we took him and ran. We've been running ever since."

"Okay."

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy saw cameras and cell phones come up. He grimaced. There was no way to get her off of him.

She began to sway her body, whether to the music playing throughout the stadium or to a melody she heard in her own head. Caught in her grasp, he had no choice but to move with her. It became a strange dance.

Call it fate or retribution. Whatever Roy deserved, this was probably it. He couldn't even be annoyed with her. He'd been there himself. Too many times.

The match was about to start, judging by the cheers in the stadium.

Roy looked at his friend.

"Do you have your room key?"

"Hm? What for?"

"I'm going to walk you up to your room."

"What for?" she repeated. "I just got here. You just got here. And now you want to leave."

"You're going to want to lie down and try to get some sleep. You've got important things to do tomorrow."

"Like what?"

"Like non-mortal combat. Like performing in front of your supporters. Like the kind of stuff that earns you the big bucks, okay? You came here to succeed, right? So we're going to get you to bed."

She leaned up and kissed him. It shocked him enough that he froze. She nuzzled against his neck.

"I like you, Roy."

"You like everyone when you're drunk."

"So?"

"You even made out with Zelda a couple times."

"She likes girls."

"And I guess Sheik doesn't?"

"Aren't they the same person?"

"I don't know. They're _your_ friend."

"I'll go to bed if you go with me."

"I'll go with you. I just won't get in it with you."

"Why?"

"I made a vow with someone."

"He doesn't honor it."

Something about that tone made Roy's blood run cold.

"If he doesn't, then he doesn't," Roy said. "I'll still honor my half."

"Tell me about you."

"You know about me, Rosa."

"You and him."

"There's nothing - "

"Why him? All you do is destroy each other."

"I can't explain it to you. We made a vow. It's just one fire. For both of us. We'll burn together. That was the promise."

She stared back at him. Eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

And just then, a flash of light exploded above the fighting stage. It drew the attention of everyone in the stadium.

Both Roy and Rosa turned to look at the same time. They watched as two fighters took the drop to the platform.

One landed on one side of the stage, dressed in black, blond hair spiked up, raising an almost comically large sword.

_Mercenary,_ Roy thought. He knew it somehow.

The other, wore white. He carried a slender blade. His characteristic blue locks fell over one eye.

"White..." Rosa murmured.

Roy noticed that too.

_White._

Not blue.

White.

It hit him then.

A code.

The color of...

Roy's phone beeped loudly. He checked it. A message from Snake.

_\- Report?_

On stage, the two fighters clashed. The audience roared.

Roy clenched his jaw. Face numb. He typed it out slowly.

_\- altea sides with bern_

Snake took a couple minutes to react.

_\- Confirmed?_

_\- no_

_\- Index of suspicion?_

_\- high_

_\- Roger_

Roy cursed under his breath. He blacked out the phone and turned toward the stage.

Rosa stood with her arms crossed. Listing a little to the side. She settled against Roy's shoulder, never taking her eyes off the match. She took his arm again. He made no move to stop her.

"Why..." she whispered, "do you look upset?"

"I'm not upset."

White was the color of surrender.

But in their tradition, it was also a color of protest.

Marth had no intention of winning the fight.

* * *

_Keep quiet no longer _   
_We'll sing through the day _   
_Of the lives that we've lost _   
_ And the lives we've reclaimed _


	8. Chapter 8

_Please remember me  
_ _I know it is too late  
_ _But promise  
_ _You will spread the ashes of our past_

\- Lacuna Coil  
"Through the Flames"

* * *

The Sword of the Last Chrysanthemum

* * *

Ganondorf had sent three dozen roses to the hotel room, and they were waiting in a glass vase when Marth arrived. He set down his bags and picked up the vase. He carried the flowers to the bed, where he spent the next several minutes tearing off their heads one by one and leaving the red petals scattered over pristine white sheets.

He dropped the vase with the water and bare stems onto the dresser.

The Gerudo king was half a year into a marriage with a proud queen of his same nation. That he thought he still had anything to do with Marth was obscene.

Marth surveyed the massacre on the bed.

The petals were a brilliant shade of red. He picked up a handful of them somewhat mournfully.

Roy had never sent him flowers. Neither had Falcon. Nor had any of the others.

Roy sent him memes, shots of pigeons mating, roadkill, phallic shaped graffiti, and other street side attractions he saw around his neighborhood.

Falcon sent him texts detailing very specific sex acts, graphic requests, as if Marth were a vending machine that dispensed blowjobs or whatever else at the press of a button. (To be fair, at one point, that had been true. But not anymore. Or, at least, that was what Marth had chosen to tell himself this season.)

Ike only sent messages if Marth sent them first, and only to say either stiffly professional or warmly platonic things. If he'd been more open about his personal life, Marth wouldn't have bothered. He'd found out about Ike's marriage, sealed quietly without ceremony, only a little before everyone else. It was settled then, they were only friends, and Marth had no room for animosity.

In any case, relationships lasted longer between friends than with lovers. Marth had long since come to that rueful understanding.

Ganondorf was pushing his luck too far. Marth did not entertain married men. This was largely out of respect for their wives. The problem with dealing with nobility was also having to deal with their accompanying entitlements.

But even common men like Falcon held tight to certain privileges. The Captain was known to play the field, regardless of established commitments. Some fires just could not be contained. And so, as with all good things in his life, Marth had decided to let that one go.

That. And whatever else might have been.

They were over. It was done.

Though, in reality, all it would take was a single text, a slight crack in the door that Marth kept barred, and a blue sports car would immediately pull up to the front gates. And they would be on again for another few weeks at least.

Falcon had promised him some things. Not eternal devotion or deep friendship, or anything of that nature. Just decency and open honesty. Falcon, under the bravado and the attitude, could be surprisingly protective of those with whom he had once shared a bed.

Sometimes, Marth wondered what it would have been like, being taken care of all the time by a man like the Captain, or by anybody. It must have felt nice. He'd have to ask one of the princesses about that. He himself didn't know a thing about it.

Marth's own personal demons came out in his loneliest moments. Lying next to a warm body helped. But not always. Not everything could be fixed that way. In his most cataclysmic episodes, he felt compelled to be the most reckless. He thought often of running straight off of balconies and rooftops. He imagined the fall. He felt, in some ways, that he'd been standing on the edge, preparing for it, his entire life.

And once he'd found himself there, on that edge, there'd be only one person who would come for him then.

Provided that that person wasn't drunk or stoned or in jail or under house arrest over some misdemeanor offense.

Marth let the rose petals fall through his fingers. He was reminded of the only time Roy had ever gifted him a flower.

Marth had been on his way to an evening function, for work related reasons, and Roy had been headed to a funeral. A bouquet had arrived from a local flower shop. Roy had pulled out one flower from the arrangement and pinned it to Marth's uniform.

"I know you like these. I'll see you when I get back."

"Do you need me there?"

"Nah, it's cool. It's for a friend of my mother's. I have to go. But I'll be good by myself. I'll text you when it's over."

Marth would leave the flower where Roy had attached it, on the front of his traditional gown, left of center. Over the heart.

And it had stayed there until he'd met Ganondorf at the gathering of delegates, lingering by the fountain in front of the venue, while the other attendees mingled. All he'd been thinking at the time was that the structure in the garden had clearly been intended to be a replica of the Fountain of Dreams, when he'd turned around and found the hulking form of the Gerudo king looming over him.

And then a large hand had reached out and seized the flower, yanking it free from the pin. Marth had watched those fingers close over the petals and crush it completely.

Opening his palm over the brim of the fountain, Ganondorf had then let the mangled petals fall into the water, some floating, some sinking.

"It's offensive," the Gerudo had said. "Chrysanthemums are flowers of mourning. It is indecent to wear one. That honor is reserved for the dead. The other ambassadors are already questioning your manners."

There were things that Marth later realized he should have said at that moment. But at the time, he'd known that the other man was right. Roy'd had no training in cultural sensitivity or etiquette. He'd known nothing about the significance of what he'd done. Marth had been in the wrong for going along with it, for being charmed by it.

Some months later, when he and Roy had fallen into another war of attrition, Marth would meet again with the Gerudo warrior king. At a hotel. And he'd let himself be crushed, like that flower, against the floor of a dark bedroom, beneath the weight of a man with a body as hard as stone.

Any satisfaction or release he might have felt had evaporated by the morning after. And he'd made up an excuse so that he could leave. He had fled from the room as quickly as possible.

He never thought that their arrangement would have lasted this long, nor did he think that he would be the one ultimately trying to sever the tie between them.

Marth gathered up the fragments of roses in his hands. The scent of them was still fresh. He knew that the fragrance would linger, as with all bitter regrets.

After Roy. After Falcon and Ganondorf, there'd been a few others.

Snake had only been acting in accordance to his profession, seeking out government intel. Marth had let him believe an exchange was happening. It was a quiet handshake between a covert operative and a public diplomat, each working for different allegiances, each seeking out different ends. Their brief collusion would, however, eventually lead to a necessary partnership in the bid to redirect the political fate of several continents.

And as for Wario, Marth would just go on calling that a bad fever dream.

And yet had it been all that wrong?

If he'd known back then that he'd never feel right about it, any of it, he wouldn't have done it.

Instead, he would have lived alone and kept his vows.

To the living, to the dead.

To a delinquent with red hair and strong hands, asleep on an old mattress in a motel, dreaming of the arena and the fast life, seeking peace at the bottom of every bottle.

The walking disaster whose name was now inked into Marth's skin. He just didn't know it yet.

* * *

"Men always lie," Rosalina said as she ran the comb and scissors through his hair. "That's why you should never put their opinion of you before your own needs."

Marth watched her deft fingers move. She used to run her own salon. She was still the co-owner of that business, but now she worked for him exclusively during the on-season.

"If you even pay them the slightest bit of attention," she went on, "they think they can control you. And if they think it, let them think. Just don't let them _do_ it."

"You're right," he said.

"I know."

She fluffed out his hair with her hands. Then she tugged off the apron from around his neck.

He turned his head left and right in front of the mirror. She took a silver reflective plate to show him the backside.

"How is it?" she asked.

He ruffled his hair, shook it out, tossed his head from side to side, testing how it'd look while moving. "That's how I wanted it," he admitted.

"Excellent!"

She opened the makeup case on the counter. It was an intimidating box, heavy framed, double latched. Rosalina carried it in a roller suitcase that contained all her supplies.

She chose a few powders, a palette, a bottle, and a clean brush.

Marth drew away slightly. "This isn't a photo shoot."

"It's an exhibition match," she said.

"Yes."

"I have what you need." She held up the bottle. "This will stay on your face, even during a fight."

He blinked. "That's incredible."

"I know!"

"But who really needs such things?"

"Well, you, for one. Think about it. Opening night. Cameras everywhere. You'll look good even if somebody's punching you in the face. It covers bruises too."

He made a slight face. "I don't think..."

"Trust me, honey. I'm a woman. We know these things."

"That sounds..."

"Dire. Tragic. But here we are. From bad things come good things. That's how you survive in this world."

He wasn't about to argue. "I suppose it's all right."

"Of course it is."

She took a wet towelette to his face.

"Rosalina..."

"Hm?" She tucked a napkin under his collar.

"Tell me your story one day."

"My story?" She laughed. "That would take more than a day."

"That's already longer than mine."

She applied cream to a sponge and began work on his face. "We all have stories."

"Yes."

Marth felt something nudge at his shoulder. He glanced back as a large grey cat stepped off the vanity and fell onto his lap.

"You're much too big to be doing this," he admonished the animal, to no effect. Instead, it headbutted him in the chest until he scratched behind its ears.

"That's a big boy!"

"He was smaller when I found him."

"Don't move too much," Rosalina advised. "I'm trying to get this right."

"Sorry."

He almost reminded her not to make it too heavy, but he had a feeling she already knew.

"This is a special formula. It won't smudge, even with sweat. Or tears. Or blood."

"That's..."

"Hey, hey, no talking."

He watched his reflection in the mirror. She moved the brush over his face with expert motions.

He wondered how the others would have looked in his position. He couldn't picture any of them going through the trouble. He couldn't even picture any of them sitting through it with him.

Falcon didn't care about these things. He'd stay away until it came time to swing by and give Marth a ride out in one of his signature cars.

Ike might have waited patiently nearby, eyes on his phone, Marth's coat on his arm, an extra bottled water on hand.

Ganondorf, though, would have chosen the look and the outfit himself. He would have had the clothes he preferred Marth wear laid out on the bed already, with the boots, belts, gloves, everything planned out, down to the pin on the cape. He would have chosen the makeup powders himself. He would have insisted on his favorite colors, the dark reds and solid kohl.

(And Marth would have woken up in a haze sometime later, surprised by his own emptiness, his own willingness to be molded into someone else's desired shape, and he would have bitten down on his tongue until the taste of blood reminded him of who he was, among the palette swaps of disposable personas he wore depending on the day.)

But Roy.

Roy would have died of boredom or started chewing on the furniture. He might have set a couple trash bins on fire or drawn dicks on the walls with expensive eyeliner.

Because Roy was an idiot with impulse control issues that he tried to smooth over with swagger and a stupid grin.

And more than any of the others, Marth realized, he missed Roy.

"You're smiling," Rosalina noted. "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing."

"Anyone new in your life?"

"No."

"Really? That last one." Rosalina made no attempt to hide her disapproval.

"He's not... No. We're not seeing each other anymore."

Rosalina smiled sympathetically. "Don't be sad. It's over. It's done."

"I know."

"I think you let people tell you what to do, what to feel, how to think, much too often."

Marth had nothing to say in return. He couldn't deny that claim.

"Who cares what these men think?" She tossed her fringe of blond hair out of her eyes and continued her work. "They want you to carry their shame. Don't. Carry your pride instead. Carry it well, and take them on. Take them all down."

Marth was fond of Rosa, in part because she said things he never would.

He'd been champion once. They'd all resented him for it. They'd all rather have lost to Ryu. Or Cloud Strife. Or Simon Belmont. Or any of the monsters the Pokemon trainers brought to the field.

Anyone but a guy who flipped his hair and wore women's jewelry.

Everyone had a story. Everyone had secrets. And Marth's lay out in the open. Whispered behind his back. It brought shame to any who took a loss at his hands.

And as it were, that number not only turned out to be many, but also included men with whom he would come to know intimately behind closed doors, in rented suites at hotels, or in the backseat of expensive foreign cars.

In his mind, he called it a consolation prize. Maybe he even felt a little sorry for them. For the humiliation he knew they suffered. It was enough to let some of them use him for a night or two.

And though it added to the notoriety of his name, it seemed to work at soothing bruised egos.

For everyone except Roy.

If Marth had been humble enough to throw a match or two in favor of his rival, the tenuous thing between them might have lasted. But as it were, Marth had struggled too hard and too long to give up a title and a win-loss record that he knew he had earned. And Roy would never have accepted anyone's pity.

They'd both had too much pride. And the fighting stage fed off of that.

Between the two of them, Roy had always seemed a better fit for the dynamics of the professional arena and its underlying tensions. Marth, by nature of who he was, and what he was, made certain types of men uneasy. And it was the dangerous kind of unease. Perhaps he should have long ago given up his ambitions toward combat sport for that reason. But Peach had assured him that it was no worse than what women went through every day in society. And in the end, he'd been too good at it to stop.

But now that the height of it had passed for him, he wondered if it was finally time to let his legacy fade. He could return fully to his original purpose, the world of diplomacy, foreign relations, high stakes politics.

In light of recent events in the greater world, that might have been his rightful calling.

Rosa dabbed something onto his lips. Marth held still and hoped it wasn't red.

When she brought out the mascara, he got worried again.

"You have nice lashes," she said.

"Thanks."

Things like that didn't amount to anything much, he thought. Looks only got you so far.

But if they already hated him for it, he might as well reinvent the role they had given him. Wear it like armor.

They'd long since stopped underestimating him. He'd earned a certain measure of respect among them. What that was worth, he couldn't really say.

One day, they'd see all the things he'd held within...

When she finished, she handed him a small mirror.

He took a close examination of his face.

"Well?"

He nodded in satisfaction. She did good work.

He handed the mirror back. Mewtwo had curled up and fallen asleep in his lap. Marth didn't have the heart to disturb him, despite his crushing weight.

"I'll help you get ready tomorrow," he told Rosa.

"That'd be great! I want the same look you gave me last month. For the session with that one photographer, you remember? That weirdo?"

"They're all weirdos."

"Agreed."

"Yes, I can manage that."

"Great! Oh, and one more thing!"

"What...?"

She retrieved a suitcase, threw it onto the couch, and popped it open.

"Got this from the seamstress. Your special order."

He accepted the bundle from her. It had been neatly folded, wrapped in tissue. He carefully removed the outer cover and held the suit up by the shoulders. Everything looked right. He checked the inner lining. It was done up exactly the way he had requested. He folded it again and replaced the protective wrapping.

"Thanks, Rosa."

"Of course. Are you up for a pre-celebration?" She skipped to the mini-bar and came back with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"I shouldn't," he said. "I have to fight today."

"That's not until later!" She shoved a glass into his hand.

Marth accepted it reluctantly.

Rosa filled his glass about halfway. Hers, she filled to the top.

Marth remembered that Roy's drink of choice had been malt liquor in a forty ounce can. Too bad they had none of that here.

Rosa clinked her glass against his. "Cheers!"

"What are we drinking to?"

She winked. "Tomorrow's victories."

* * *

For some time, Snake had been pushing him to turn Roy.

Marth had always said no. Because Marth worked for Altea, not for Snake, nor for Snake's organization.

And he may have been the son of Lyndis, but Roy had never shown any interest in war or politics.

They were in bed one night. Marth lay turned to the wall, scrolling through material on his phone. Roy was at his back, headphones over one ear, dozing off.

"Do you ever have trouble sleeping?" Roy asked suddenly.

Marth turned off his phone. The images on it faded to black. He had a privacy screen on, but Roy was directly behind him and could see it clearly. And Roy had apparently been watching him go through it for some time.

Marth had two phones, one for personal use, one for work. The things that came through his personal phone were not sensitive in terms of national security. But they were sensitive in terms of subject matter and content.

"Yes," Marth whispered back, in answer to the question. Because that was the truth. He carried the trauma of a witness to a crime, a witness to suffering. A witness, not an actor, unable to change the outcome for a victim.

Roy said nothing, but the arm he had around Marth's waist tightened a little.

They never discussed Marth's work. Marth had never wanted to. And he'd just assumed that Roy was ignorant of the history of their home continent. Roy had, after all, spent the last decade on foreign soil. But silence didn't always mean an absence of knowledge, and an absence of knowledge didn't always mean disinterest.

Roy had grown up for a time at a refugee camp. That much he'd shared. What he knew of his mother's war was more uncertain. He wore scars on his body that had not come from the fighting stage. Marth could tell. He knew the difference.

There'd been rumors. During the war, a royal heir had escaped a siege on the capitol by using a decoy.

The tactic was old enough to be an accepted tradition. Marth himself held a post that belonged to a king's sacrifice. He'd given up his name, his past, his identity, to serve the nation, to be their mouthpiece, their ambassador and representative on the world stage. "Prince Marth" was a title, and he'd been sworn in during difficult times. He knew that he belonged to a lineage of civil servants that never lived on into retirement. Others who'd held the post had all died in the service. Usually while protecting the kingdom from threats both external and internal. Sometimes by suicide as a form of protest against an injustice.

That was the expectation placed on him. Marth had known it all well before taking the oath. He had every intention of living up to the standard set before him.

Roy, it seemed, lived only for himself.

This, the audacity of such a life, had always fascinated Marth.

"How much," he asked Roy, "did you see? Back home? During that time?"

The music thumped faintly on, hard bass, an aggressive beat.

But when the vocals hit, they were surprisingly soft.

"I've met her," Roy finally said.

"Who?"

"The girl in the photo you were looking at. She's married with kids now. They lived across the street from us. They called my mother 'Lady Lyndis.' They came over for special occasions, or sometimes just to chill. They'd bring fruits from their backyard. My mother liked to put lemons in her water. So they always brought lemons. They washed their own dishes every time. My mother checked in on them. Made sure their electric bill was paid. One winter, their lights and heating got turned off. So my mother helped them out. They take in other people's kids if the parents go to jail or whatever. They took me in for a while. They're good people. You'd like them."

Of all the possible answers, Marth hadn't expected that. He smiled against the pillow, against the tears.

'No,' he'd later offer in a report. 'The son of Lyndis is an addict living high on newfound fame and fortune. He spends most of his nights getting high and going to parties. He is entirely ignorant of history and current events. He is useless for your purposes.

'And for mine.'

* * *

They paged him in his dressing room. The hallways had been cleared of all but staff and press. He could now take the walk into the arena.

He had asked to be alone.

Marth stood before the mirror. Fixed his cape. Ran fingers over his hair. Checked the scabbard and his sword. He was ready.

Roy had wanted him to wear red. But he couldn't do that. Not this time.

He opened the door and stepped out into the grey corridor.

Marth always took the long walk alone. He did not have a team in his corner.

The press cameras flashed. Security held down at specific intervals.

Marth kept his eyes forward. Music filtered in over the speakers, muted in these back halls. He could measure the distance to the stage by the sound of it, the swell and rise of it.

In these moments, Marth's heart was usually calm. Nothing could wound him. He was not anyone special. He did not have the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was just another animal with a savage spirit. All that he normally held within, the storms he was forced to hide, could be freed now.

But this time was different.

This time, the two parts of his life were conjoined. The fighter who competed in the name of personal pride, an entertainer, was now merged with the political actor, who stood for the people.

Altea was a small country whose historical footprint granted them global influence. Known for their neutrality, they were often called on as arbitrators in international conflicts. They were set to host the upcoming emergency summit regarding Bern's aggression against the League of Lycia.

A last minute addendum had also included Sacae and the united federation of tribes as affected entities.

Though the formal positions of the attending countries were expected to be announced during the summit, their alliances and intentions had already been decided. The information was only not yet public.

No matter how much Snake pressed him, Marth gave nothing away. Even though he knew.

Altea would maintain its neutrality, effectively siding with Bern.

And Marth, who had seen the raw footage from the conflict zone, who had spoken with the survivors of massacres, who remembered Roy's silence - Marth had made a decision. He was about to lose his state position in spectacular fashion.

He wore white. He had the world's attention. He planned to use it.

These bouts were never entirely free of the greater context. Each fighter was a representative of at least a hometown, if not a nation. Each one of them carried a responsibility. Each one had at least one life, one love, to protect or avenge.

The music blared loud now, the vibration shaking the floor beneath his boots. Ahead of him, the last set of doors waited.

They opened as soon as he came before them.

The arena was like an ocean. Vast and all consuming. The screams of the crowd almost drowned out the announcers.

Marth stepped onto the platform above the stage. The lights glared below. At this level, the combatants stood in half shadow. No fighting was allowed on the top platform.

His opponent stood facing him on the other side.

Marth had read the file on Cloud Strife. He knew who the man was, his occupation, and why he was here.

_Everyone has a story. Everyone has a reason._

Marth bowed. The other fighter did the same.

When they both straightened up, the bell rang.

The platforms dropped like trapdoors beneath them.

Marth embraced the fall.

Or, perhaps, the fall embraced him.

* * *

Roy had asked him once, "Who were you? Before you took the oath."

"No one," he'd said in reply.

"That sounds like something you were trained to say."

"There's nothing special about that person."

"Well, okay. Is that why you threw him away that easy?"

"It wasn't easy."

"Okay. So he meant something to you."

"He...wanted to do great things. He wanted to be a voice for justice. He wanted to protect those who were persecuted. He wanted to stand up against what was wrong. He wanted to stop the tyrants who crushed the lives of the most defenseless."

"Sounds like he still wants to do all that."

"Because he came from that, Roy. He came from a people who'd been targeted for mass slaughter. He came from the bottom, like you. Sorry, no, not like you. He never had it that bad. But you know what I mean. We all suffered differently."

"Sure."

"Wherever there's a fight, or a struggle, not for pride or fortune, but for freedom and for life, he wants to be there. Because, in spite of everything, he still wants to believe in humanity and fairness in society."

"That's noble."

"Is it? It isn't anything like that to me. It's just the only way I can conceptualize peace."

"Let me know if you ever need help with that."

"I will."

* * *

During the drop, Marth threw his sword. It struck the floor, point down, embedding itself into the stage.

Its fighter landed next to it.

But he made no move to pick it up.

Instead, he stood and faced his opponent empty handed.

Cloud glanced at the sword. He seemed to hesitate. But when Marth made no attempt to take the weapon in hand, Cloud charged forward, his own sword drawn, its heavy tip dragging against the floor as he ran.

Marth let the other fighter come. Waited for the steel.

He had always fought for Altea. But now...

There were some things in life more important than being good at a game.

_I hope you see me..._

_I hope you understand..._

* * *

_Consume me  
_ _But I will not repent_


	9. Chapter 9

_it was me against the world  
_ _i was sure that i'd win_

\- Social Distortion  
"I Was Wrong"

* * *

Never Say Die

* * *

The world watched Marth take Omnislash at close range. Without resistance. Cloud was in perfect form. The first swing launched Marth into the air. Cloud chased him. Above the stage, he unleashed the full technique in a tornado of violence. His signature move drove the crowd to hysteria.

The Buster Sword cut swift arcs. Marth took one hit after another. The final cut slammed him, like a training dummy, down towards the floor, in one last fall.

But when the blade struck, a burst of red exploded. The audience was stunned into a hushed silence by the sight of it.

Marth took the fall, trailing red as he went. When he hit the ground, he lay still.

Cloud landed next to him. Fragments of red fell around him. The soldier reached out with a gloved hand. He caught rose petals in his palm.

He watched the flowers drift down from overhead.

He looked at where Marth lay.

It wasn't much of a victory. Marth had thrown down his sword, refused to fight. All eyes were on Cloud now, awaiting his next move.

Glass shattered from the rafters, an alarm sounded.

Cloud looked up again. Saw glittering shards raining down. He shielded his face from the falling glass.

The announcers screamed over the roar of the crowd.

_A new challenger!_

In exhibition matches, it was allowed.

A hard red object clattered to the stage. A figure dropped down next to it. Black hoodie, street clothes.

He picked up the object and shot a gust of smoke at Cloud, who threw up a shield, taking no damage.

A fire extinguisher.

Cloud let down his shield just in time for Roy to lob the extinguisher like a bowling ball straight into his midsection, knocking the swordsman clear off his feet. He tumbled away to the other side of the stage.

_Items are for bitches,_ Roy thought. _But guess who's gonna be a bitch right now?_

Exhibition matches were meant to be chaos. Eight way free for alls. No holds barred. The crowd loved it.

But the chants in the arena now were mostly for Cloud. Mixed in with it were a lot of boos and jeers.

_Yeah, all you clowns know it. Disaster just walked in. You ungrateful assholes got no place acting all surprised._

Roy hopped back. Crouched down next to Marth.

"Hey, princess. Don't be sleeping now."

Dark eyes fluttered open. "Roy...?"

"Who else?"

He grabbed Marth by the arm and pulled him to his feet. Caught him before he fell. Rose petals scattered around them.

"Hold onto me."

"You..." Marth shoved him away, stumbling. Roy caught him again.

Marth tried to pull away. Failed. "You fucking idiot..."

"I know, I know. Yell at me later."

Roy stepped in front of Marth and turned to face Cloud. He took hold of the sword Marth had abandoned and pulled the blade from the floor where it had been lodged.

Its weight was far lighter than his own.

Well, he didn't have his own anymore.

Buster Sword came down at him. He parried and countered. A reflex. A little slow. Cloud's weapon nicked him at the cheek.

He dodged the next two hits before catching Cloud on an upswing. Roy swung into an opening, knocking Cloud back. Roy pressed forward with a combo and drove the other fighter towards the edge of the stage.

Then Cloud's heavy blade lashed out at him from the side. Roy took the hit, jumped back, rolled away, but Marth's sword had been lost over the edge. Too light. He'd never fought with it before. The feel of it had been too unfamiliar.

Though they had once been rivals, they had never swapped weapons before. They had never done well in team ups either. It was evident that their fighting styles did not complement each other at all. Their strengths could not balance out their weaknesses.

That incompatibility, Roy had always thought, might have been a warning.

He slid up next to Cloud and swept his leg. Grabbed him as he stumbled and threw him over a hip and straight down over the edge.

But Cloud jumped, flew, and took hold of the ledge. He swung himself back onto the stage, where he fell into a roll past Roy. Cloud got on his feet again, just as Roy slammed an elbow into his face.

Roy took advantage of the moment to kick that oversized meat cleaver out of Cloud's hand.

The blade crashed to the floor. Roy rained fists into his opponent's face.

Cloud staggered. But the soldier did not go down without a fight. He regained his footing and swung back.

Roy took a flurry of head and body shots. And he returned the favor.

Cloud Strife was an elite soldier. A product of training, indoctrination, genetic engineering, and the subsequent trauma that went with it.

Roy was ghetto trash. A product of late night binge drinking and chemical addictions, who somehow always found his way home after many nights of extreme self inebriation.

His nerve endings just weren't that sharp anymore. He felt little of the pain the soldier was dealing him, even as his body took the damage.

The rest was a tribute to his mother's genes.

Cloud could take a lot of abuse, but he started to buckle.

Roy headbutted him. Busted his lip. Grappled, locked, and flipped him up and over the edge.

There was no recovery from that

Bells rang. The audience screamed. One fighter down.

Roy looked back at Marth, who had dropped to his knees, one hand pressed to the floor to hold himself up.

In spite of his injuries, he seemed really fucking angry at Roy.

And that was about normal.

Roy flashed a grin. He still had Cloud's blood trailing down his face. Then, with a quick salute, he threw himself off the ledge.

The audience seemed to gasp all at once.

Final bell.

Marth's name was the only one remaining on the scoreboard.

* * *

In the locker room, Cloud was being tended to by a pretty girl with long black hair. They both glanced his way as Roy sauntered in, dripping blood and broken glass in his wake.

Roy gave them a thumbs up. "Good game, Squall."

"My name is Cloud."

"Right, sorry. My bad." Roy laughed. "Hope they've been treating you good around here."

"Yeah..."

Roy wiped at his chin with the back of his hand. It came away red. "Anyway, gotta run. Nice seeing you again, Storm."

"It's Strife."

"Oh yeah. I knew that. You're fucking famous. _Ku-raudo Suto-waifu!"_

The girl dropped the ice pack she was holding to Cloud's face and doubled over laughing.

Cloud just winced at Roy. Bandage strips held shut the cuts on his face.

"Uh..."

"Did I get it right?"

Cloud nodded, a placating gesture. "Sure." He tilted his head to the side. "And who are you again?"

The doors banged open. In marched the battle's sole victor. But the smoldering look in his eyes suggested that the fighting wasn't over.

Roy brightened up. "Hey, babe."

Marth grabbed his sleeve and pulled him toward the exit. "We need to talk."

"Okay."

But Marth started tilting, and Roy had to hold him up again.

"Let's get you to Doc M first."

"Get me to my room."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't question me."

"Okay..." Roy pulled Marth's arm across his shoulders. "Lean on me then." He wrapped an arm around Marth's waist.

They limped toward the opposite doors.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, Roy."

"Looking forward to that."

Out in the hallway, they took a wrong turn, walking straight into the media spotlight and camera flashes. Roy hustled them into an elevator.

Marth fell heavily against him.

"You sure, you're okay?"

Marth shook his head. "Shut the fuck up, Roy."

They made it to the room. Roy dragged him over to the bed and tried to set him down as carefully as possible.

Marth's fingers trembled as he started to undo his belts and armor.

Roy reached down and helped him. The sword was back in its scabbard. Roy placed it on the table.

Marth got his boots off and fell back against the bed.

Roy looked at him doubtfully. "You good?"

"You know, some days I wish we had never met."

"Sounds familiar."

"Shut up." Marth drew an arm across his eyes.

Roy knew that he did this to hide his face. Some emotion there he didn't want to let out.

Tread lightly. If Roy only knew how.

"So," he started, "you wanna tell me what that whole mess was about?"

That, he realized, was not light. Not light at all.

"If you hadn't interfered," Marth said, "you would have found out."

"Yeah, sure. But hey, I liked the roses, that was a nice touch. You, what, had them stitched to the inside of your clothes? Very cinematic. Social media is all up on that, I bet. You're probably already a trending topic."

Marth leapt off the bed. "You don't get it! You absolute idiot."

He tore off his cape and threw it at Roy. Then he fell back against the bed again, both arms crossed over his eyes.

Roy picked the cape off the floor. It was white on the outside. The inner lining was...

He held it open. Red petals fluttered down. Some of them still clung to the fabric, held there by thin threads. But most had been dislodged by Cloud's sword strikes.

The missing pieces revealed something else sewn into the lining of the cape.

It was the flag of his mother's homeland. The united federation of tribes. On paper, they no longer existed.

Roy had not seen that banner in years.

"I've met your sister," Marth said, his voice a whisper now. "The daughter of Lyndis and Rath. This is the standard she carried with her during her first confrontation with enemy forces."

Its colors had faded, bleached by the sun. Spots of it had been stained in a shade like rust.

"They took heavy losses that day," Marth continued. "I promised her I'd bring it here, to the stage, in front of a world audience. I promised her that I'd make the struggle of her country known."

Roy said nothing. He folded up the cape and laid it down on top of the sword on the table. There was a first aid kit on the chair.

Gently, Roy took Marth by the hand and pulled him to a sitting position. He wiped away blood and dabbed antiseptic to the cuts on Marth's face. He had to open the front of the uniform to assess for more damage. A lot of bruising on the chest. That would hurt later. Marth's armor had shielded him from the worst of it. Midgar steel was no joke.

Marth held still, passive, too exhausted to complain. Even when Roy stripped him down completely and pressed firm fingers over muscle and bone, testing each mark and welt, noting the wound dressing already tapped in between his shoulder blades.

Roy watched Marth's face, listened for the times when his breath would hitch to hide a noise of pain.

Roy knelt in front of him.

"Push with your foot against my hand..."

Marth complied, still silent.

"You have some swelling around your ankle. Does it hurt?"

"No."

"Can you put weight on it?"

Marth rose to his feet. But he wobbled and grabbed Roy's shoulders for support.

Roy eased him back onto the bed. "Might be a sprain. Hope it's not broken."

"It doesn't hurt."

"Do you want to ice it?"

Marth only shrugged. He pulled on his underwear.

Roy lifted the injured leg onto the bed. He shook out a cold compress and applied it to the ankle. Marth lay back against the pillows. His eyes were on Roy.

"Your face..." Marth said.

"He got me. It's just a scratch."

Marth watched him wordlessly.

Roy stood up. "I'm guessing you're gonna want a bath."

"Yes. But..."

He was probably too tired for even that, Roy figured. "Give me a minute to clean up. I'll be right back."

Marth closed his eyes.

In the bathroom, Roy leaned against the sink and scrubbed off the blood on his hands and face.

_She is everything her mother would have wanted her to be,_ Ike had said.

They didn't need him after all, Roy thought. They probably already had their key players in place. Snake was just gassing him up for nothing.

But if he had called it right. If Altea sided with Bern. That was an ally lost to the League and the tribes.

That could affect the whole outcome.

Roy came out, found Marth curled up on his side on the bed. Taking a risk, Roy lay down next to him. Watched him sleep for a bit.

There were questions. But those would have to wait until later.

_Do you still believe in justice? Freedom, honor, a fair society, all of that? This isn't even your fight to begin with._

_But you carried my mother's flag as if you were one of us._

_I've never... would never..._

He'd never belonged to his father's country, nor his mother's. Nor the place where they had been offered sanctuary in exchange for service and loyalty.

Roy placed a hand over Marth's. He met no push back.

"You didn't have to lose to make that point," he offered.

"It's complicated, Roy."

"Yeah. I know."

"You should have stayed out of it."

"I couldn't. You... With you, it's an instinct in me."

"You should have trusted me."

"Yeah. I do. But you never tell me anything. And it's your job, I get it, some things I can't know about. But, damn, sometimes you just seem like you think your life is totally worthless."

Marth didn't answer.

"So, uh, are you still mad?" Roy tried.

"Yes."

"Do you mind if I stay here, though?"

Marth shook his head.

"Okay then." Roy dipped in, cautiously, as if he were dancing with a cobra, and kissed Marth on the forehead. "For now. Just hold off. We can both rest a little."

By that, he meant that Marth could sleep, and Roy would stay up. Someone had to, to wake him up every hour, to make sure he could still wake up. Marth most likely had sustained significant head trauma. Roy understood the precautions.

"You can get right back to hating me tomorrow," he added. "You always do."

"I don't hate you, Roy."

"Well, at least that's something."

"But you really make me want to toss you out the window."

Roy brought Marth's hand to his chest, over his heart.

This was the only home he knew.

This was the home he wanted to protect

* * *

_A memory..._

12 AM, alone with a gun in the motel room where he lived.

12 AM, chambering a single round.

12 AM, rock bottom was the place to be.

1201, his phone rang.

"Roy...?"

Thinking of the right words was hard.

"Do you mind if I come over?"

Yes. He was in the middle of an executive decision. But...

"I know it's been a while. I just wanted to see you for a little bit. If you're okay with that?"

Swallow down the worst of it. The things that hurt. Speak the words that'll bring him here.

"Yeah. Okay."

45 minutes later, a knock at the door. He came in with a rustle of plastic bags. Took off his shoes and hung up his coat. Brushed cobalt blue bangs out of his eyes as he took a brief look around. He was the nicest thing in Roy's apartment.

He walked to the middle of the mess of what passed for a kitchen. There was just a small counter, sink, mini-fridge, a portable plug in stovetop. He set down the bags. He'd brought beer and instant ramen, the expensive premium brand kind. Another bag contained vegetables and pre-cooked meats.

He started by boiling water.

Roy watched from the mattress on the floor. The TV tuned to a sports broadcast.

Roy's mother had taught him how to cook. Marth had never shown any inclination toward it before.

But he managed to wash the vegetables in the tiny sink. Broke them up with his hands to throw into the pot. Eventually he put together a bowl of ramen, which he brought to the small coffee table and set down in front of Roy. Handed him a spoon and chopsticks.

Then he went back and cleaned up the kitchen. And everything else besides the kitchen. He picked up the garbage, found a broom, swept the floor, put on gloves, wiped down the counters, and took a disinfectant spray to the bathroom.

Roy was halfway through the ramen. He was into his second can of beer. He tasted neither. He tried to follow the sports show. It was difficult.

In the end, Marth had several bags of garbage tied off. He headed for the door.

"Leave them outside," Roy said. "I'll put them in the dumpster later." It was well past 2 AM. His head hurt. The parking lot wasn't a good place to be.

Marth ignored him, put on shoes, and went out there anyway.

Roy stepped outside in flip flops to keep an eye on him while he threw the trash away and came back.

They ended up together on the back balcony, seated next to each other on two empty box crates. Marth said nothing while Roy lit a cigarette. He silently accepted the can of beer that Roy handed to him.

It wasn't much of a view. Just the back alley and the parking lot of the neighboring complex.

Somewhere nearby, a cat meowed.

Marth went inside to grab some leftover meat. He laid it out on a plastic lid and left it outside the front door.

Sometime later, an ugly grey cat scurried over and feasted on the plate of food.

Marth seemed delighted. He watched the animal from the window until it finished and crept off into the night.

"I hope he comes back," he said.

"Keep feeding him and he will."

Roy went back to the balcony for another cigarette. Marth followed. The air was cold.

Roy dusted off an old blanket he had hung up on the railing to dry a month ago. He threw it over Marth. It probably smelled like cigarette smoke and car exhaust. But Marth offered no objection.

The old crates were not too comfortable to sit on. It was all right, though. Roy pressed his back to the wall. He took a long drag from the cigarette.

The sky grew into a shade of night that matched Marth's hair. There was no way Roy could comment about it without getting it all wrong, so he didn't.

The smoke trailed upward on the exhale.

He did not expect Marth to fall against him and put a head on his shoulder.

Cymbals clashed inside of Roy's brain. The pounding of his own heart thundered loud in his ears.

A cold hand slipped into his. He wrapped his fingers around it. Enclosed it against his warm palm. That skin did not seem as nearly as rough as his own, even though they'd both grown calluses from years of weapons training.

He had taken apart the gun before Marth arrived. It was back in its box in the closet.

Under the blanket, their fingers interlaced.

Roy brought their clasped hands up to his lips and kissed Marth's knuckles.

_Expect nothing from me, and you won't be disappointed._

* * *

A storm woke him up in the early morning. The sky was dark blue and faintly pink. Lightning flashed just outside the window. Thunder hit a few seconds later.

Roy sat up. Reached for Marth. Found nothing there.

He had woken Marth several times throughout the night. Each time, it had gone well. Or, as well as one could expect.

The door to the hotel balcony was open, curtains fluttering with a strong wind.

Roy got up. The sound of rain came down hard and heavy. He walked to the balcony.

Marth stood, wrapped in a blue cape, his arms braced against the rail, hair dampened by the rainfall.

His dark eyes watched the distant clouds. They were tall thunder clouds, and Marth sought out each flicker of lightning. Rain pounded the neighboring rooftops. It was cold, but he reached out with a hand to let the droplets run through his fingers.

Marth, Roy remembered, loved storms and turbulent skies.

So Roy did nothing to disturb him.

The storm raged on.

And then, abruptly, it ended. The clouds thinned and rolled away, dissipating over a rose hued sunrise.

Marth turned and slipped past Roy on his way inside.

Rainwater trailed after him into the bathroom.

Roy heard the sound of the shower running and went back to bed. But the unfamiliar surroundings - that and the scent of Marth on the sheets, mixed with that of blood and sweat - kept him awake.

He listened again to the sound of running water. Then he got up and lightly tapped the bathroom door. When there was no answer, he eased it open.

Marth stood under the water, one hand braced against the wall. He had torn off the dressing on his back. Something was there, between his shoulders, that Roy couldn't see clearly through the misted glass of the shower stall.

Marth threw an undecipherable look over his shoulder.

Roy grinned back. Because, according to Samus, it was harder to slap an idiot when they were smiling. So, she had advised him, he needed to smile a lot.

The bathroom had a second compartment. Roy went to the sink and rummaged through the supply of hygiene products offered by the hotel. Toothbrush in his mouth, he looked behind him and found Marth glaring at him through the glass.

Roy gave him the thumbs up. Marth rolled his eyes.

There was no point in going back to bed. So might as well get the day started. Roy figured he probably had some messages on his phone. He hadn't checked it. There had to be, at this point, some very angry people waiting to talk to him.

Oh well.

As Marth lazed through a shower, Roy cleaned up and slipped out into the main room.

He clicked on the TV and started the coffee machine. He ordered room service. He was, he decided, going to be a competent adult today. He could be considerate if he wanted to be.

Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and turned on his phone.

Every alarm sounded all at the same time. He hit the silence button.

That was a lot of missed calls.

Looked like he was in trouble with everyone.

That was a new record. Samus would be proud. She had only called him eight times.

He decided to let them simmer a bit. What had they been expecting? They were lucky he hadn't burned the stage to the ground. Who gave a sh -

Marth came out of the shower, finally. One towel around his waist, another he used to dry off his hair.

Roy shoved his phone into his pocket. "Morning, sunshine. I was thinking..."

He stopped. The mirror on the wall had caught the reflection of Marth's back. The mark between his shoulders was a tattoo, a word, a language Roy no longer spoke.

He could not read his mother tongue. He only spoke it. And only as casual conversation. He had explained that to Snake during the assignment briefing. Snake had assured him that it wasn't necessary for the job.

Roy didn't know much. But he knew his own name.

His eyes fell on Marth's face.

"You..."

Was all he got out. Marth brought one knee onto the mattress next to Roy's leg. He raised himself up and settled the other knee on the other side, straddling Roy's lap.

"Oh. Okay."

Was this really what they were doing? They'd been at a stalemate for so long. Neither could recall who had fired the first shot.

Marth wrapped arms around Roy's neck. Pressed lips to his temple.

In return, Roy held him tight around the waist. And remembered when it had been new between them. How it had crashed because they had come to accept that happiness was momentary.

Who was to blame now?

The towel was slipping.

"So," Roy ventured, "are we...?"

"Hm?"

"Like, uh, are we still fighting?"

Those arms and legs squeezed harder around him. Marth hid his face in the spot between Roy's shoulder and neck.

His sigh rolled out with a slight tremor. Roy's skin seemed to catch fire in response.

Marth's voice was the same cutting whisper it had always been.

"You said, together, or not at all. Right?"

"Yeah."

"Break me now so you can fix me later."

Roy needed no other invitation.

* * *

_but the world fought back  
_ _punished me for my sins_


	10. Chapter 10

_people tell me slow my roll  
_ _i'm screaming out fuck that  
_ _i'ma do just what i want  
_ _lookin' ahead no turnin' back_

\- Kid Cudi  
"Pursuit of Happiness"

* * *

The %#$! Made Me Do it

* * *

It was still morning. Still early. Roy slipped quietly out of bed and into the shower. Marth slept on, face buried in the pillow, hair over his eyes, expression peaceful. A rare thing.

Roy showered quickly. Didn't stop to think about the significance of the moment. If he thought too hard about it, something would go wrong. He was sure of that.

He toweled off while standing on the cold clean tiles of the hotel bathroom. He pulled on his boxers and pants. Tossed his shirt and hoodie back on. Stepped out and found his shoes.

Before he left, he drew up the sheet over Marth's bare shoulder.

Marth stirred at the touch.

"I'm going for a run," Roy whispered. "I'll be back in an hour. If not, I'll call you. Okay?"

"Don't forget." Marth sounded tired.

Roy kissed his forehead. "Rest a little bit."

As he turned for the door, Roy startled at the sight of an ugly hairless cat sleeping at the foot of the bed. He hadn't noticed it before. How long had it been there?

It lifted its head, eyes narrowed at him.

"Fucking shit..." Roy murmured. "He brought you here?"

' _I could say the same of you.'_

The words sounded in Roy's head, in a voice deeper than one would have expected. Roy had never gotten along with the thing.

"You freaky telepathic mutant. Stop reading my mind."

' _If I were to actually read your mind, it would only lower my intelligence.'_

"Yeah, you shit in a box and lick your own ass. Sounds smart to me."

' _All I see in your head is static. Static and pornography. You sick, depraved human.'_

"I swear, if you don't stop with that shit..."

"Roy...?"

He turned around.

Marth opened his eyes for a second, then closed them again. He sank deeper into the pillow.

"Stop talking to the cat, Roy... He's a cat. He doesn't understand you. We've been over this."

"Uh, sure, yeah." Roy glared at the animal. "He doesn't understand a damn thing."

Mewtwo let out a soft meow and moved to snuggle next to Marth. But his eyes stayed locked on Roy.

' _I'll be watching you.'_

Roy gave him the finger on the way out.

The glass elevator offered a view of the city, still half asleep, its gaudy monuments muted in the early light.

Roy let himself out the back entrance of the hotel. Crowds had already gathered around the block.

Tugging the black hood over his head, Roy started running from the parking lot, past the security and medical tents, the media vans, the crew trailers. Waluigi's garbage truck was still parked there.

Smash town rolled in like a circus once a year to different venues. It changed the landscape wherever it landed.

He ran through downtown. Saw obvious Smash fans making their way past him toward the arena. He kept his head down. Kept running. Cold air burned his lungs. But it was tolerable.

Times like these, he missed Mac and Lucina, who would have come with him, even though they could both probably outrun him. But there was no denying that he was in better shape than a year ago.

The hotels and banks eventually fell away to auto shops, vacant lots, liquor stores. Now this was scenery he was used to.

Every city had a ghetto. Didn't matter what the people up top said.

But every stray cat from one alley needed to watch its step when setting foot in another.

Past a worn out playground, beside a broken chain link fence, people had thrown their garbage by the "no dumping" sign.

Roy kept going. Found a telephone pole wrapped with deflated balloons and dried up flowers. A street memorial, encircled with candles. Someone had left a teddy bear, toys. Among them was a wooden sword.

Roy stopped and picked up the sword. Remembered a gift he had received from his father, the last time they had met. His father's face had been kind, but it had been the face of a stranger. His mother had urged him forward to take the gift, the toy wooden sword, to accept the kiss on the forehead. Roy remembered the sad smile, the hand on top of his head, the gentle rustling of his hair.

" _You're growing up fast, young man."_

There was a flyer with a photograph stapled to the telephone pole. A name. A birthdate and a death date. A face that could have been his brother's.

A few days ago, Roy had received a letter via courier. An official notice, with the letterhead of the Pharae province, signed by the son of Ninian and Eliwood.

" _Please live your life to the fullest. Your life is now entirely your own. I intend to accept responsibility for my own choices from this point forward. No one will sacrifice their life for mine any longer. You are hereby relieved of your obligations to the state of Pharae and the League of Lycia. And please, forgive my father. He only did what he had to do for my sake. Know that he cared for you. I will always acknowledge you as my brother. Leave the past behind and move forward to a better future. No matter the outcome of the current situation, I am glad to have known you."_

Roy set down the toy sword. He stood in silence at the spot where another had died. Then he ran on.

Past warehouses and condemned buildings.

Under an overpass, Roy came to an old mattress, a tent, and a cardboard box. He stopped and backtracked. The box looked familiar.

He kicked it over.

"Watch it, kid!"

Roy jumped back. "What the hell, Snake?"

The man rose to full height, eyes hard, clothes worn out. His beard hadn't been trimmed in a few days. He dusted off his mud stained pants. He met Roy's eyes with a level stare. "You gotta learn to be more subtle."

Roy took in his appearance. Snake knew how to wear disguises. Roy was impressed. "Have you been following me?"

"No. I just hang out here."

"Yeah, sure. In a tent under the fucking overpass. That's totally what normal people do on their weekends."

"You want any coffee?"

"What?"

Snake motioned to the other side of the tent. He had a couple crates set up there, along with a portable stove and a battery powered coffee maker. He retrieved two mugs from the tent and offered one to Roy.

With a sigh, Roy accepted it. He took a seat on one of the crates. Snake took the other and poured out the coffee.

"Careful, it's hot."

"Thanks."

"Sugar?"

"Nah."

"Good, I'm out."

"Why'd you offer then?"

"It's a ritual. You gotta do it, even if you're out."

"If you say so."

"Cheers."

Roy shook his head, but he took a sip anyway. Bitter. Burnt. And strong enough to wake the dead. He looked around. Snake's wasn't the only tent in the area.

Around them, there were other signs of life. A few grunts and coughs. The smell of cigarettes. Street weed. And some other things.

"You haven't been answering your phone," Snake said.

"I was busy."

"Do it again, and I'll mark you down as KIA."

"I've been that."

"Ha." Snake lit up a cigarette. "You've got a lot to learn out here." He held out the open carton. After a moment, Roy took one. Snake held the flame for him.

"Thanks."

Snake slipped the lighter back into his pocket. The cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. "I saw your little stunt last night."

"You and everyone else."

"That was risky."

"Yeah, well, it had to happen, okay? You never said I couldn't do it. So I did. It was an exhibition match. No one cares what happens during those. They don't count towards anything."

"You were interrupting something."

"Who knows? It's Martha. He's got his own thing. Everything's a performance with that one."

"You made contact?"

"Yeah."

"How did it go?"

Roy shrugged. "He's mad at me."

"Did you verify the intel?"

"Look, it's kind of hard to figure out what he's talking about half the time. But I mean what I said."

Snake smoked in silence for a bit. Then he asked, "Are you caught up on your reading?"

"Yeah."

"Then you know what you're looking for."

"Hey, it's like I told you. No guarantees. I don't know the others as well as I do him."

"How well do you know him?"

"Better than you. How 'bout that?"

"That's not saying much, kid."

"What you saw last night. That was his resignation. He's breaking ranks. And they'll come after him once they figure it out."

"You think he'll go through with it?"

"Yeah. He thinks it's the right thing to do."

"Did the message get across to the other side?"

"Well, I kind of got in the way. So maybe not. There's probably some debate on it right now."

"Can you convince him to undo it?"

"I mean, I could try?"

"Tell him we need him to keep his position."

"His position is ceremonial. He says he can't change anybody's mind over there. He has influence but not power. That's why he's willing to throw it away. And he needed to make a point of it in public. Or else it wouldn't matter."

"We don't need him to change anybody's mind. We just need insider information from him. We need him as a liasion."

"They're not going to have insider info that you need. Altea is choosing a play of non-interference. They're not a providing tactical assistance. So Bern's not sharing strategic intel with them."

"Make contact with Kamui, and tell me what you think then."

Roy shook his head. There were a couple different ways the whole thing could blow up. Bern could form a coalition of willing allies to lend logistical support, or even arms and personnel, to their war against the tribes and Lycia. But more than likely, they didn't have that kind of support. Instead, they had a simpler and equally effective option. All they needed to do was convince the other states to maintain their neutrality. Without outside objection or interference, the massacres would continue.

Snake had warned him to be careful with his phrasing of things. In effect, any country adopting neutrality in response to the conflict only aided the aggressor, Bern. But if Roy emphasized that point too much in his communications, he would only end up putting more pressure on Marth to do more work from within the Altean state.

It was a delicate situation.

The important point was, Marth was an ally to the tribes and to the League.

Roy settled his eyes on Snake. "You holding out on me, old man?"

"No. But even if I knew anything, I couldn't tell you. I can't say anything that might sway your opinion. We're betting on your unbiased intuition."

"Yeah, sure."

They drank their coffee, watched the pigeons. Watched the camp wake up.

These types of places knew their regulars. They must have gotten used to Snake. Which meant that he must have stayed here before.

A couple of grizzled men shuffled by, one dark, one light, faces unshaven, hair flattened under black woolen caps. They both nodded at Snake. And Snake returned it.

"They know you out here, don't they?" Roy asked.

"Ex-service guys," the soldier stated simply. He said nothing else about it.

"Seems like there should be a better place for you all to go."

"Not really. The shelters are full. So are the psych wards. You ever been in one? They run 'em like institutions. Like prisons. Most would rather be out here."

"Well, in that case, I can't really blame 'em."

Snake lit up another cigarette. "If you want my opinion on the whole thing, I'll tell you. Peace is better than war. Guys like your princess are worth more than guys like you and me. He's a diplomat, and a real one. He's only giving up now because he thinks it's a losing battle. It doesn't have to be. If he can get Bern to the negotiating table, I'd want his solution more than yours and mine."

Snake continued, "And I don't care how many of you kids bleed on that stage in the arena. It's better than bleeding out here. Let him know that. He doesn't talk to me anymore. If the song and dance in the arena, in front of cameras, if the performance moves people, then have him use that. Tell him that it'd lead to a more sustainable resolution than what we've got cooking up back here."

"We're out of options, Snake."

"What do you mean by 'we?'"

"Sacae. We've been bleeding for years. And I'm done bleeding."

The old soldier watched him through a fog of tobacco smoke. "You want the front line that bad?"

"Can't stay in the back and watch others suffer. Not for my whole life. You were the one pushing me to get up and make something of myself. Now you're trying to make me second guess myself."

"No. I just want to make sure you know what you're getting into."

"My mother didn't have a choice. Shit happens. You rise to the occasion. That's it. You gain nothing by staying on the sidelines. I can't live that way."

"Thought you were the one saying 'those kids don't stand a chance?'"

"They probably still don't, to be honest _. We_ don't. But this ain't livin.' We got nowhere else to go. We didn't start the fucking war. They came at us. They brought the war _to_ us. We didn't ask for this shit. So we do what we gotta do."

"Hm." Snake smoked in silence for a bit. He must have heard it all before. Nothing new under the sky. Humanity's desperate dance. Freedom, survival, subjugation, or death.

"The summit is next month," the soldier said. "Every key player on the continent has a representative at this event. You have a few days. Tell us how you think the alliances will line up. It'll give your side some advanced notice. They'll be able to make the necessary preparations."

"I thought you all had official channels for that sort of intel."

"Lycia does. The tribes don't. And they don't trust Lycian sources. We're going at this from all angles."

"You think they'll trust me?"

"You're one of them, aren't you?"

"Ask them. I wouldn't know." Roy downed the rest of his coffee. "If I keep up my side of the bargain, then you have to keep yours."

"That's a given."

"Nothing's a given. Not out here. We've been lied to before."

"That wasn't me. If you want to know the truth, I stand by what I said earlier. I knew your parents. We fought together. I owe them this."

Roy glanced at Snake. Found the man's eyes hard, staring at the distance, into a past world Roy didn't know, wasn't a part of.

Roy stood up. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fresh carton of cigarettes. He set it down on the crate next to Snake. "Alright then. I'll hold you to that."

"Stay in contact," Snake said.

Roy tucked his hands into his pockets. "Remember the deal. I go to the front. Martha stays right here. If they come after him, you get him out."

Snake made a soft noise, a quiet almost laugh. "Your princess can handle himself."

"He likes to think that. Don't you dare believe it." Roy turned to go. But before he left, he gave Snake a mock salute.

Snake did the same. "Watch your back, son of Lyn."

"You too, boss."

* * *

Back at the hotel cafeteria, they were holding brunch.

Roy ran a hand through his hair and tried to look presentable. There were more people here than he knew the names of. The tables were all full. Half of the occupants looked hung over.

He wasn't in a mood to socialize, but it was a part of the job.

Roy had barely set foot in the place before someone called out his name. He turned around just in time to get tackled by Lucina and a very enthusiastic Pichu.

"I wasn't sure you would come!" she cried.

"Hey, nice to see you too."

"Pichu!"

He crouched down and patted the yellow mouse on its head. "Good to see you, lil' buddy."

"Mac!" Lucina shouted. "Look at who decided to show up!"

Two chairs and a table toppled over when Mac leapt up from his seat. "There he is!"

"Hey - "

Mac grabbed him so hard Roy swore he felt a rib creak under the pressure.

"Yo! What the fuck!" Mac bounced from side to side. "You didn't answer my texts! You came into this mother like a goddamn hurricane!"

"Ugh, yeah, it was just - "

"Bogard! I want you to meet my friend!"

Roy looked over. Terry stood by the table. He was grinning.

"We met on the way over," Terry said.

"No way!"

"We got arrested together."

"No fucking way!"

"Long story," Roy muttered.

"Show him what you got, Terry!"

"What?"

With a bold smile, Terry whipped out something he'd been holding behind his back. "Check it out."

"That's..."

"I stole Falcon's helmet."

"You...what...?"

"I stole Falcon's helmet," Terry repeated.

Roy snatched it out of his hands. It was legit. Falcon's signature red helmet with the bird insignia on the front.

Roy felt his left eyebrow twitching. This was...not good.

"How," he started, "the hell, did you ever...?"

"Grabbed it while he was sleeping."

"You were in his room?"

"Yep."

"Why...were you in his room?"

"He invited me up."

"To do what?"

"We played cards."

"Cards."

"Yep."

"Terry..."

"Huh?"

"Did you guys - "

Lucina socked him in the shoulder.

"I'm just saying," Roy continued. "The only thing deadlier than the Falcon Knee is the Falcon D - "

Lucina socked him again. "Roy..."

"I'm just saying. This isn't a good thing, you guys."

"It'll be fine."

"Uh, no, it will not be fine. No one knows what he looks like, okay? He could be anyone in this fucking room. And when he finds you - "

"No, it's cool, I swear." Terry pulled out a set of keys from his pocket. "He lost a card game and traded me these instead of cash."

"You got the keys to the Blue Falcon?"

"Is that what it's called?"

"Yo!" Mac jumped up and down. "That's sick!"

Roy looked back and forth between Mac and Terry.

"They have the same personality," Lucina observed.

"I know," Roy grumbled. "And that's going to be a category five disaster."

"We might as well take it for a spin," Terry said.

"Awesome!"

"No." Roy made a fist around the keys. "How drunk were you last night?"

"I only had a couple."

"Do you remember everything that happened?"

"Well..." Terry looked up at the ceiling. "I think...?"

"Do you know you've got bruises on your neck...?"

"What?"

A door flew open on the other side of the room. The air changed temperatures. Roy felt the sizzle of atmospheric heat.

"Oh shit..."

He knew the presence of the Falcon fire. It was a thing felt before it was seen.

Roy tossed the helmet back into Terry's hands and took off running in the opposite direction. He still had the keys in his hand. Not a good idea, but Falcon's car was fast. He thumbed the emergency button.

He hauled ass down the hall and kicked open the door to the back parking lot. Mac and Terry came in right behind him, as if they had all instinctively sensed their impending doom.

Around the corner, the blue chrome of Falcon's car appeared as the autopilot steered it into the car port. The doors opened, and Roy jumped inside.

"That's a nice ride!" Mac shouted.

"Get in," Roy advised. "If you want to live."

Mac seemed to hesitate, but he was suddenly pushed from behind.

"Get in!" That was Lucina. Pichu on her shoulder. She had followed them.

They piled in, and Roy hit the accelerator. They narrowly missed the side of the building and a traffic light.

"You got the okay to drive this thing?" Mac asked.

Terry shrugged. "Hey, he lost the game fair and square."

Roy felt the adrenaline hit. It was a shaky "live to die" level of aggression, and it had taken full control of him. He knew he had a job to do. And this wasn't it. But he and Falcon had some unsettled business.

And since this was likely to be his last Smash tournament ever, Roy figured it was time to settle.

They hit the open road, and Roy gunned it towards the horizon.

* * *

_if i fall, if i die  
_ _know i lived it to the fullest  
_ _if i fall, if i die  
_ _know i lived and missed some bullets_


	11. Chapter 11

_I followed you out in the storm  
But it carried you off  
And I burned every picture of yours  
Was that not enough?_

\- Rise Against  
"People Live Here"

* * *

We Don't Fuck With Casuals

* * *

Mac wouldn't stop playing with the sound system.

"Just pick a station," Lucina called from the back seat.

"Gimme a minute." He cranked the bass all the way up. "Let's see what the Captain has on his playlist."

Suddenly, loud erratic techno dance music exploded from the speakers.

Terry nearly jumped out of his seat, hitting his head against the roof in the process. Pichu dove into Lucina's lap. And Lucina slapped Mac on the backside of the head.

"Turn it down."

"Ow!" But he complied. "What is this?"

"Music from the future," Roy said.

"No shit, really?"

Roy did a double take at the genuine tone of Mac's question. "No, of course not. Are you an idiot?" He turned his attention back to the road. "How would that even work?"

"Hey, man, you never know around here! I met Falco, right? From Team Star Fox. _That_ guy! And he had these ideas..."

"Falco's a con man."

"What?! How do you know that?"

"He's my friend."

"Hear me out. He's got this idea for how to make money. It involves - "

"A pyramid scheme?"

"Nah, man. Nothing like that. It's just this _system_ where you sell products to people in your social circle. And then they sell the same thing to other people they know. But the trick is - "

"You get a payout for everyone you enlist."

"Yeah! And then - "

"That's a pyramid, Mac," Lucina said.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Waitaminute. How is it that you sword guys know _everything?"_

"We don't get hit in the head as often as you do."

"What? No. Listen. Everyone gets hit in the head. A lot. _Everyone._ That's just how it works."

"Not really. You could try dodging once in a while."

Mac laughed. "No way. That's not part of my game plan."

"You have a game plan?" Lucina said doubtfully.

"I do." Mac fake jabbed into the air. "Hit fast. Hit hard. Just don't get hit back."

Lucina groaned. "Mac. That's not a strategy."

But Terry nodded in approval from the back seat. "That's how I do it too."

"Alright!" Mac swung around to fist bump his new friend but almost clobbered Pichu on the way.

The mouse squeaked in protest.

"Watch it!" Lucina warned.

"Sorry, little guy."

"Pichu..."

Just then, an engine roared, and it wasn't the Blue Falcon.

Roy glanced at the dash screens. Something was coming up on their right. A hot pink car with red and orange flames.

"What's that?" Mac turned toward his window. "Dang! They're gaining on us."

The car matched them, side to side. Then it shot out ahead of them.

Instinctively, Roy stepped on the accelerator. They raced toward the intersection. The light went from green to yellow. The pink car showed no sign of slowing.

"Hey, buddy?" Mac called out. "You might wanna slow down?"

But Lucina had shot forward in her seat. She gripped Roy's shoulder. Her eyes never left their rival car.

"Smoke them," she said.

Mac stared at her in disbelief. "You're supposed to be the reasonable one!"

The light went red. But the streets were clear. The pink car blasted through the intersection, and so did Roy.

The road curved. Roy took the inside lane. The other car started to fall back, veering toward the outer shoulder.

"This isn't how I wanna go!" Mac shouted.

"We're fine," Lucina said. Her voice was ice cold, something as hard as steel. Roy hadn't seen it in her before. Not at this caliber.

The next intersection was busy. Roy slammed the brakes. Threw them all forward in their seats. The pink car pulled up next to them, revving its engine.

"Guess it's not over," Roy mumbled. His heart pounded. Falcon's car wasn't hard to pilot. But he didn't do this kind of thing often. The onboard computer was probably correcting all his mistakes.

"Maybe you can lose them," Mac suggested. "Take the next turn."

"No," Lucina said. "The lanes merge up ahead. When the light turns green, get ahead and cut in front of them."

"Not sure that's such a great idea..." Mac said.

"Just do it."

The light went green. Roy hit it again. They shot ahead of the pink car. Roy swerved hard in front of them.

"They're on our tail," Terry said.

Roy laughed. He couldn't help it. He felt reckless. "Should I brake check them?"

They entered a tunnel. Two lanes opened up again. The pink car tried to pass on the right. Roy took both lanes and blocked it from getting past.

"Oh man!" Mac groaned. "He's gotta be real mad. You sure this is a good idea?"

"No," Roy said, in all honesty. But they were too far in it to change course.

They dodged a delivery truck and several commuter cars on the way out of the tunnel. Signs and cones marked off a construction zone.

"Road closure!" Mac cried out. "Up ahead."

Roy took a sharp turn, running over orange cones and knocking over at least one sign.

They hit a narrow alleyway, slipping past trash cans and dumpsters, and came out the other end.

"Holy shit, man!"

"Calm down, Mac." Of all of them, Lucina showed the least amount of fear.

"How are you so chill!" the boxer shouted.

"I don't see 'em anymore," Terry reported from the back.

"Guess they missed that turn," Lucina said. She seemed disappointed.

Roy took his foot off the gas. He let them slow to a normal speed. Little black spots winked in and out of his peripheral.

Terry breathed a sigh of relief and slouched in his seat, Pichu huddled in his lap. Mac laughed hysterically.

"You crazy bastard! I can't believe we got away with that!"

Lucina looked around through all the windows. Her expression was pensive, alert.

Roy pulled them into a vacant parking lot. The high was still there. And now it was making him shake. "Anyone got cigarettes?"

"Oh man, I thought I was gonna die before my first official match..." Mac grabbed Roy by the shoulder and shook him. "I love you, man, but I'm never riding with you again."

"Pichu!"

"Sorry," Roy said to the trembling rat.

"Oh sure," Mac huffed. "You'll apologize to the rodent but not to me."

Roy found a half empty carton of smokes in his pocket. "You want one?"

"No, I got a match later tonight. You should lay off of those things too."

"I'm weaning myself off. Can't go cold turkey. That just leads to withdrawal."

He was already feeling off. He'd felt it all day. A strange unshakeable restlessness. A mild agitation. He was hungry without appetite. He needed something, but he couldn't think of a thing that would satisfy him.

Roy threw open the driver's side door and got out to light up.

Mac got out too and looked around. "Hey, where are we?"

"You don't recognize it?" Roy asked.

"No."

They were in the shadow of a large drab concrete building, sealed off behind a chain link fence that had been twisted and broken through in a couple places. The site looked like it was set to be demolished. Signs warned against trespassing.

Terry got out with Pichu on his shoulder. Lucina joined them.

"It looks abandoned," she said, looking at the building.

"It's the old Smash stadium," Roy said.

"Wow." Mac took in the sight. "It must have seen better days."

Roy shrugged. "Something like that." He stared at its walls, stripped of its signage and colors, marked now by graffiti. He still remembered how it had looked his first day. It had been an intimidating giant. Like a sacred place, something off-limits to the likes of him. And now...

He scanned up to the rooftop. It was then that he realized they were not alone.

Mac noticed it too. "Whoa. Someone's up there."

"Yeah."

"Who's that?"

"A newcomer," Roy said.

The man was tall and muscle bound. He was wearing a red headband and a white karate gi. He stood completely still, staring down at them without a word.

"Should we say hi?" Mac asked.

"I don't think he wants to be bothered," Lucina said.

Roy whistled. "Hey, sexy! Why don't you come out and play!"

The man said nothing. But his frown seemed to deepen.

"Guess he's the shy type," Roy said.

"Well," Mac pointed out, "your invitation wasn't all that convincing."

Then the man on the roof turned his head to look in the direction from which the group had come.

Terry followed his gaze. "Hey guys! They found us!"

Roy spotted the pink car barreling toward them from down the road. "Not this shit again."

The car came to a stop behind the Blue Falcon. The driver's door popped open.

"Where's Captain Falcon?!"

The pilot was a large heavy man in a vest and a racing helmet, eyes concealed by goggles.

In response to his question, Roy merely offered an indifferent shrug. "I dunno."

"This is his machine!"

"Yeah..."

"So you're all thieves, are you?"

"Nah." Roy nodded in Terry's direction. "My friend's got special privileges."

The other doors on the pink car opened. The first to emerge was a girl with long white hair and a navy blue cape. Roy's eyes fell to her first. Hoshido's Corrin. Snake's "Kamui."

The girl came forward. "Lucina..." She froze midstep.

Lucina glanced at her but said nothing to acknowledge her.

Behind her, the rest of the pilot's crew fell into place. But they were an unlikely group. Not more unlikely, Roy realized, then the one he himself had unintentionally assembled.

One was a teal-haired young man in black. Another wore heavy robes, his white hair short but wispy.

Roy had learned their names. Byleth. Robin. And the pilot...

"Samurai Goroh," Roy said.

"That's right! And you are about to learn your place!"

"Sure." Roy put out his cigarette. "Why don't you call the cops?"

"I don't deal with 'em, son." Goroh took two steps and drew his sword. Suddenly, he charged in, just as Roy pivoted to meet the attack.

The katana flashed into view, its blade sharpened to kill. Roy was a fraction of a second too slow. But it didn't matter.

Steel met steel. The lethal edge of the katana clashed with the Parallel. Lucina had stepped in front of Roy. She deflected Goroh's strike, catching him completely off guard. With a small twist of her sword arm, she knocked the man off his line of attack.

Goroh fell back with a stumble. As he resettled into position, he must have noticed what Roy also noticed, that Lucina had thrown him off with very precise movements. She had used the least amount of force to accomplish what she needed to do. In the arena, this was a tactic meant to conserve energy. It required a high level of skill to operate this way.

Sword drawn, her eyes never left her target, even as she sized up her surroundings.

Goroh raised his weapon. He seemed to recalculate his odds.

"You don't look like much," he snapped.

Lucina said nothing.

So Goroh came in for a second try. His sword cut down from above.

She parried the blow. Then she circled in and slammed him in the face with an elbow.

He fell back, bleeding.

Roy recognized that move. It was the same one he had used against Cloud on opening night.

Before she could launch a full offensive, Roy stepped in between them. Eyes on Goroh's crew, he leaned in close to Lucina's ear.

"Save it for the stage. They're taking notes."

Lucina turned slowly toward the others. Byleth watched her intently. Robin, in particular, seemed focused on the details of the fight. Corrin merely looked apprehensive.

Everyone here, except for Roy and Goroh, were competitors. Learning an opponent's habits was a key part of developing a strategy against them. Anything a fighter displayed to an audience was potentially a tool to be used against them.

If Robin was anything like the rumors said of him, he had already learned much from the little demonstration.

Goroh righted himself. "Oh, you'll pay for that!"

But Corrin grabbed his arm. "We really shouldn't do this."

"Are you kidding me?"

Roy spoke up. "You're here for me, right? We can go. Just don't involve no one else." His face was still busted and taped up from yesterday's fights. But he wasn't a contender this time. What did one more matter?

"Sounds good to me!" Goroh surged forward, but was stopped again by Corrin.

"Mr. Goroh! You're on parole!"

Roy glanced down at the man's leg, where he spotted the ankle monitor. He couldn't suppress a laugh. "That's tough, man."

"Who cares?" Goroh shot back.

"You should," Roy advised. "You really should."

Byleth slid up beside Goroh. "I'll take this one."

His voice was soft, cold. His eyes gave nothing away. Something about the way he carried himself seemed very familiar.

"Alright then," Roy said. "You and me."

"You don't have a sword," Lucina objected.

Roy felt a nudge. It was Mac, at his right.

"You fought yesterday," his friend reminded him. "Why don't you sit this one out?"

"If I sit out, we all head back. Now."

But Mac squared up against Byleth. "Let's go."

Roy shook his head. "Hey - "

Too late. Mac swung on Byleth.

It went downhill from there. Byleth dodged the first hit. The second got him in the gut though. The third clipped the side of his head.

For a second, Roy thought Mac would win. He was too close for Byleth to even draw his sword. But the fourth punch never landed. Byleth drew from his waist a small dagger. And Mac's face split open, red with blood.

Roy punched Byleth in the face. Byleth hit the ground. Robin jumped in front of him, palm open towards Roy.

"You said one on one," Robin objected. "You can't all gang up on him."

"Let them come." Byleth's voice was barely above a whisper as Corrin helped him back up. He drew his sword. "I see no one here worthy of a challenge on their own."

Terry pulled Mac to his feet. Mac pressed a hand to the cut on his face. "We'll see about that!" Pichu hopped onto his shoulder, eyes sharp, cheeks buzzing.

"Hey," Roy cut in. "They've got a point." He looked back at his bloodied friend. "You'll get disqualified if you get caught up in this."

"You all got some bad blood or what?"

Roy turned back to Byleth. "Just a rivalry."

A small furrow formed at Byleth's brow. "Rivalry?"

"Yeah."

"He never called you that," Byleth said.

"What?"

"He never called you his rival."

"Who?"

"My teacher."

Byleth's sword shot out, lightning fast. And just as fast, Lucina was there to counter it. Their blades clashed, and she shoved him off violently.

Thrown back, Byleth took a defensive stance. His confidence dropped a notch.

Lucina raised the point of her weapon.

"Are you still angry?" Byleth asked. His tone was neither condescending nor provoking. It was merely a question.

"We wondered what had happened to you after you left," Robin added.

"You never returned my calls," Corrin said. Her hands were balled into fists. Her eyes seemed wet. "It was like you wanted nothing to do with us anymore."

Lucina didn't lower her guard. When she spoke, her tone was unapologetic.

"I found my way."

"This?" Corrin made a gesture in Roy's direction. "This is your way?"

Lucina said nothing.

"You used to call me friend," Corrin pleaded. "What are we now?"

Lucina shook her head. A slow vicious motion. "Strangers."

A stricken looked passed across Corrin's face. "You..."

Roy felt that he had tuned into a movie already in progress.

"You were the best among us," Robin said. "Why did you leave?"

Lucina was unfazed. "Some things made it hard for me to stay."

Corrin sank to her knees, drawing the concern of those around her. Robin offered her a hand, but she didn't take it.

"Byleth..." she begged. "Let's just go."

The swordsman seemed reluctant to leave. He locked eyes with Lucina. She hadn't looked away from him during the whole encounter.

Corrin rose to her feet. She wiped away tears. "Please. Stop. I can't take any more of this."

Finally, Byleth backed up slowly. He sheathed his sword.

Robin nodded at Roy. "We'll settle this another day."

Roy shrugged. "Suit yourselves."

Corrin had already turned her back.

Byleth looked at Lucina. Her sword was still out, but she kept the point lowered.

"You may have been the best," he said, "but that's in the past now. Don't worry about us. We've found our way as well."

"Who said I was worried?" she answered.

"I look forward to facing you in the arena."

"Good luck." There was still an edge to her tone, but not enough to suggest outright hatred. Just a stone cold resolve.

As the rest of his crew disappeared back into the vehicle, Goroh pointed at Roy. "You're lucky I'm wearing this thing." He indicated his ankle monitor.

"Yeah," Roy threw back. "Sure."

"You kids better get this heap of trash back to Falcon before he comes after ya."

Roy nodded at Goroh's monitor. "You better get back before the distance alarm goes off."

"I'll see you again, punk. Don't forget your blade next time."

The doors slammed shut on the pink car. The engine thundered, and it took off in a surge of heat and dust.

As Roy turned back to the rest of the group, he noticed that the rooftop of the old Smash stadium was clear. Seemed like the silent loner had vacated his spot.

Only then did Lucina sheath her sword.

Roy wanted to ask for the back story on that whole episode. But judging by the look in her eyes, now was not the time.

* * *

"Corrin's a babe," Mac said as Roy cleaned out his cut with antiseptic. They were seated at the curb, parked in the shade behind a discount drug store.

"Don't go there," Lucina said.

"I'm just sayin'."

"Her face doesn't match her heart."

Mac fell silent while Roy started taping up his face. The words had been said with too much knowing.

"Girls like that..." Lucina trailed off. "I thought she was different. Nevermind."

Terry came around the corner with Pichu perched on his hat. He carried a cardboard tray with drinks and paper bags marked with the name of the parking lot coffee stand.

"Got you guys some food."

Mac brightened up immediately. "Thanks, man! We all sorta missed brunch."

"How's the cut?" Terry asked.

"Just a scratch," Mac assured him.

Roy sealed it with medical glue. "Let's hope it doesn't open during your first match."

Terry held the tray out to Lucina. She uncrossed her arms to take a cup of tea and one of the pastry bags.

Terry tossed another bag to Mac, who tore it open in an instant.

Roy helped himself to a bagel. He flinched as a realization hit him. He pulled out his phone. He'd forgotten to call.

He hastily punched out a text.

\- _sorry got caught up in something wanna meet up later?_

"You gonna tell us the full story?" Mac asked Lucina.

"There's not much to say."

"They were your friends, yeah?"

"We were students under the same teacher."

"You mean, like, a training camp?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"Why'd you leave?"

"It's complicated." She looked at Roy. "When he said that his teacher never called you a rival, he meant Marth. They're all his students."

Roy remembered Byleth's eyes. That cold calm detachment. "Makes sense," he admitted. "But that means, you were once his student too."

"Correct."

He should have known. From the moment that they'd met. That she had sought him out for a reason.

"You must have burned some bridges when you left," he said.

"I still respect Marth. But I have some differences with the rest of them."

"They don't seem like terrible people," Mac offered.

"Really? He cut your face open."

"Well, to be fair, I did hit him pretty hard."

"Our blades have to be dulled in order to be tournament legal. That knife had a cutting edge."

"As long as he doesn't carry the dagger onto the stage," Roy said, "he'll still be compliant with the rules."

"Goroh's katana was sharpened."

"He's not a contender."

Lucina drew her sword. She held it out to Roy with both hands.

"Take a look."

He accepted the weapon and examined the blade. The edge was blunt to tournament standards. But there were nicks on it. Roy counted three marks, fine lines, etched into it.

Two from Goroh. One from Byleth.

He handed the sword back to its owner.

"Marth trains his students to win," Lucina said.

"He doesn't train them to cheat."

"No, he doesn't. But it's been a contentious issue. They fought to have the rules rewritten in their favor. Their blades have to be blunt except for a specific spot. They are allowed to be sharp in one place only. It could be near the hilt, or the center, or at the tip."

"Marth prefers the tip," Roy said.

Mac laughed. "Just the tip, right?"

"You don't want to know the answer to that one."

Lucina looked at Mac. "You should probably load your gloves."

"Seriously?"

"It's not against the rules."

"I dunno. Seems like a cheap trick to me."

"Do you know what you're up against?"

"I mean..."

She turned to Terry. "Same goes for you."

"Pichu?" The rat twerked its head to the side.

"You'll be fine. Zap anything that moves."

"Pichu," it chirped back with an affirmative nod.

"Oh man." Mac stretched his arms over his head. "Thought I could make some friends, have some fun. But things are already getting heated."

"Welcome to Smash," Lucina told him.

"That's my line," Roy said.

"You sword people," Mac grumbled. "Just gotta take it to a whole new level, huh?"

Lucina sighed. "Yes, we do. Never forget that. We're actually a rather mean species."

"Eh, well. Robin seemed alright. Byleth was hard, but he wasn't an asshole. And Corrin's pretty cute."

Lucina shook her head. "You'll know her face but not her heart. Trust me."

"Wait, were you two, like... _together_ -together?"

"Don't ask too many questions, Mac."

"Damn, that's really fucking hot though!"

Lucina tore a piece off of her croissant and flung it at him. He missed the dodge, and it bounced off his forehead.

"No items!"

"You're an idiot."

Roy's phone beeped. It was a message from Marth.

\- _Yes_

"Well," he said to Lucina, "I may be able to get some info for you."

Straight from the source.

* * *

Twintelle descended on them the moment they entered the backstage area.

"I need all of you in the main exhibit hall."

"What for?" Lucina asked.

"You're all late for the autograph session."

"I think I'll pass," Mac said.

"It's in your contract. You want to keep your sponsors happy, yes?"

"Well, yeah, but..."

None of them were in the right condition for a photo op. Twintelle looked the whole group up and down, left and right.

"What were you all doing? Crawling through the gutter?"

"Well..." Mac tried to explain.

"Dressing rooms are that way." She ushered them down the hall.

"Have fun," Roy called out as he tried to slip away, only to be yanked back by the collar.

"Not so fast, mister. We have a spot reserved for you too."

"Hey, I'm not even supposed to be here."

"Oh? Your little act last night got everybody talking. The fans remember you. They really want to see you now."

"I'm pretty sure I don't have any fans left, okay? Now if you'll excuse me..."

But something hooked him by the arm and dragged him back. Roy looked down and realized that it was Twintelle's hair.

"What the hell!"

"We don't have time for this." She pulled him along. With both hands free, she stole a brush from a side pouch and pushed it onto Lucina. "Hair and makeup down that way." She shoved Mac in the same direction. "You too!"

"I don't _do_ makeup," Mac whined.

"That's why you don't get any dates," Lucina told him. She turned to Roy. "Let's meet up later." Then she disappeared down the hall with Mac in tow.

"Listen," Roy said to Twintelle, trying to extract himself from her hair. "As much as I'd love to totally act like some big shot, I'm just a has-been at this point."

They turned the corner, and suddenly found themselves staring down Blood Falcon. He did not seem happy.

"Oh, shi - "

_"FALCON..."_

Roy ducked behind Twintelle. Pichu ducked behind Terry. And Terry just stood there and closed his eyes.

The Captain's fist stopped just in front of Terry's face. The fist opened, palm up, and slapped the red cap off of the blonde's head.

Terry blinked. "Uh, here's your helmet back," he said sheepishly.

The Captain took him by the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall. He grabbed the helmet. And the keys.

"I'll deal with you later."

He let go. Then he turned and strode away.

"There better not be a scratch on the car, or I'll rearrange your guts."

Roy wasn't sure if that was a normal threat or a sexual one, and he had no interest in finding out.

"That's a lot of balls coming from the mascot of a dead franchise," Roy called out. Couldn't help himself.

Falcon flipped him off but didn't stop walking.

"The Captain's pulling in a huge crowd this year," Twintelle pointed out. "I don't think you could call his franchise dead."

"Never said he didn't have charisma."

"He's been in one movie and a television series. That's quite a bit more than you." She crossed her arms and nodded at Terry. "This one's been on the big screen too."

"You don't have to rub it in, you know."

"Even your rival," she continued. "He landed a speaking part in a movie."

"Really? Never seen it."

"Well, it was only one line. But that's still more than you."

"Nice. Good for him. Was it a commercial for anime wigs or some shit?"

"Why don't you ask him about it?"

"Yeah, okay. He's a star. I'm a nobody. Why am I doing this again?"

"Because you're making a comeback, remember?"

"I ain't making shit."

"Come with me. I have something for you." She pushed them both into a dressing room filled with staff. She shoved Terry, with Pichu on his shoulder, into a chair in front of a mirror, and left him to the mercy of a photo prep crew. She pulled Roy into a separate space, behind a curtain.

"What's all this?"

There was a clothing rack. She chose one item on a hanger and held it up for him.

"It's a gift," she explained. She laid it out on the table.

He stared.

It was a lot different than his old uniform. Though the colors were similar.

From a box, she retrieved boots and armor.

"Try them on," she insisted. "I hope you like them."

Then she vanished behind the curtain, leaving him alone with his own ghost.

He wasn't expecting it to hit this hard.

The first time he had put on his uniform, it had felt like it meant something. But over the years, that feeling had faded.

Now, it still haunted him. What had he come here for? What was he chasing?

The new costume was as inviting as it was repulsive.

He looked at himself in the mirror. Tried to remember the kid with big dreams. But there was no going back to that. Time had dragged him and run him over. He wasn't the same guy he once was.

Nevertheless, Roy shed his outer layer of clothing. He pulled on the new uniform, the new skin, let it settle over his shoulders, and fastened all the buckles. He stepped into the boots and threw on the armor.

Then he turned toward the mirror.

It was someone else looking back at him. His body had built up enough mass to fill in a once taunt frame. The skinny malnourished kid fighting over rations at a refugee camp was gone. The uniform carried with it a purpose. This reflection was that of someone who'd found his calling, a reason for the suffering and the pain of broken youth.

This was a stranger standing before him. Not the low-tier loser snarling from the bottom of the pit. It wasn't him, not in the slightest.

The image was a lie. It had to have been. The bones underneath it all were still the same.

The lion cub had grown up.

The curtain shifted. Roy turned from his reflection.

Marth, dressed in his classic navy blues with gold trim, stopped at the sight before him, soft locks falling into his eyes. He took it all in for a moment before meeting Roy's gaze.

"It suits you," he said.

Roy glanced back at the mirror. "A little dramatic. But I guess it works."

Marth lifted the cape off the table and dressed it over Roy's shoulders. Roy turned to face him so that he could adjust it from the front.

Marth's hands lingered as he fixed the cape in place. His fingers slid up Roy's neck and settled around his face.

They hadn't seen each other since early morning. A lot had happened since then.

Roy pulled him closer. Tried to steal a quick kiss. But the curtain moved again.

Roy looked up, expecting, maybe, Twintelle.

But Marth's body went rigid in his arms. As if, without even turning around, Marth knew who it was.

"Sorry, am I interrupting?"

Ganondorf had a well rehearsed smile that never quite reached his eyes. The bulk of him seemed to crowd the space between them.

In another time, Roy probably would have pulled away, embarrassed to show any display of affection. But now, he found himself firmly planted where he was. His shadow was larger. He gave the other man a disinterested look over Marth's shoulder.

"Nah, man. You need something?"

"Yes." His gaze turned to Marth, who failed to acknowledge him. He seemed to wait for it just the same. "We're both needed out front. You know where."

Marth answered coolly, without turning around, "Understood."

The curtain fell back as the other man retreated.

The tension stayed in Marth's body. He didn't look up.

"You good?" Roy had to ask, even though he knew he wouldn't get a real answer.

"Yeah."

Roy remembered what Rosalina had said. And he thought of all the different ways he could break Ganondorf's face. Pictured it nice and slow. Rewound it and repeated it.

Marth leaned into him and whispered, "Sorry. I wish we had more time."

"Later then. Tonight. I'll stop by your room."

"Sure." Marth left a kiss, soft, at the edge of his jaw. "I guess I'd better go."

"Right."

Marth pulled apart from him and turned to leave.

"Just one thing."

Marth stopped. "Hm?"

"I met your student today."

"Oh."

"He's a lot like you."

"Was I ever like that?"

"He has confidence. I'm sure he can fight."

"Fighting isn't everything."

"Well, around here it kind of is."

Marth took a breath. "As a trainer, you notice things about your students that they sometimes fail to recognize in themselves. Byleth is one of my best fighters. And yet...he has the loneliest eyes I've ever seen."

Marth paused. "Apart from yours."

Roy stared back in silence. "I figured it out," he said after a moment. "He will too."

"I hope so."

* * *

_Do you cry my name in the dark  
Like I do yours?_


	12. Chapter 12

_we drink all day and we talk til dark  
_ _that's the way the road dogs do it  
_ _light til dark_

lana del rey, "ride"

* * *

Love, Violence, and the Ghost of Geese Howard, part I

* * *

They called him the dojo killer. Ryu knew him by reputation. He'd become something of a boogeyman. They said he was a wandering fighter. He'd walk into a school, unannounced, and politely challenge the top fighter to a match. In the beginning, they'd all thought he was a joke. They said he was young, looked like a traveler. But too clean to be completely homeless. Must have been one of those kids who had came from a comfortable life, Ryu thought, backpacking through foreign lands by choice.

Ryu, who'd spent his fair share of time on the road, had met enough of them. He didn't need to see another one.

But when Ryu stopped by Ken's boxing gym on a peaceful summer day, he'd found the place in complete disarray. Broken glass, toppled furniture, wall scrolls scattered across the floor. A blond man in a red _gi_ surveyed the damage while his students, armed with brooms and gloves, worked to pick up the worst of it.

"What happened?"

Ken turned around. His face had been patched up. "Ryu! Welcome back. You missed it."

"A fight?"

"Yeah."

Ryu did what any friend would do. He picked up a broom. Helped sweep up some of the glass while Ken explained it to him.

"He barged in here looking for a challenge. In broad daylight. Trying to get me shut down, I swear."

"What did you do?"

"He was looking for me. My students told him he'd have to make an appointment. He insisted he just wanted a word. Someone made fun of his hair. It spiraled out of control from that point."

"Sounds like a mess."

"Looks like a mess."

"Your guys held their own?"

"Yeah. But he knocked over one of the statues. My top student lost it. They had it out. But this guy is pretty strong. So everyone else just jumped in."

"They ganged up on him?"

"Hey, he came at us in our own territory, he had to have been expecting it. They held him off long enough for me to get there. And at that point, he's beaten up already, standing there, blood on his face. They totally worked him over. But he's still challenging me. What was I supposed to do?"

"Seems like it would have been better to refuse."

"That's what I did. Then he came right at me."

"Really?"

"So I kicked him. Straight through that window. Told him to go home."

"Did he?"

"What do you think? Wouldn't give it up. Made me dislocate his shoulder. That was after he got me real good in the face."

"Your wife will be upset about that."

"Eliza's pissed, yeah. Says I should go for legal action. But no one knows who he is. You know who I think it was, right? I'm telling you the rumors are true."

"Oh. _Him."_

"Yeah. You know what I'm talking about. He either has a thing to prove, or he just hates traditional martial arts. And so far..." Ken looked around him. "Seems like he's good at making a scene."

"But you sent him on his way."

"It goes down as a draw. We didn't meet on equal footing. My guys wore him down before I got here."

"I see."

"In a way, I hope he comes back. Feels like unfinished business right now."

"Does he hate traditional schools?"

"He never said anything like that. But it looks like he does mixed martial arts."

"Was he trying to recruit for a gym or a school?"

"Nope. Just came for a fight."

"That's troubling."

"Yeah, I know."

They hadn't had these types of problems for a long time. When mixed arts were a new trend, yeah, there'd been some skirmishes. With any new sport, the young practitioners were often zealots, disrespectful and cocky. But now that the sport had aged a little, the traditional and modern styles tended to keep their distance from each other.

Still, the rivalry remained, and some tensions occasionally arose.

Fighting was not the end goal of traditional martial arts. Ryu had long followed that path. It was a way of life. As far as he was concerned, boxing and mixed martial arts were sports. There was a difference.

"They say," Ken went on, "he's going after fakes."

"You are not a fake, my friend."

"Well, he's probably figured that out. Hope he got that shoulder taken care of."

Ryu swept up shards of broken glass into a bin.

They had most of it cleaned up by the time a black Cadillac pulled up to the front. A door opened. A man got out of it.

"Excuse me."

He was tall, massively built. He wore a vest over a collared shirt. Two men flanked him on either side.

"I'm looking for the owner," he said.

Something unnerving about that smile.

Ken stepped up. "That'd be me."

"I heard you had some trouble this morning."

"There was a little incident, yeah."

The guy didn't look like a detective.

"I hope you'll accept this." He handed over a sealed white envelope.

"We don't need any...uh, donations."

"This isn't a donation."

Ken exchanged glances with Ryu. Finally, he accepted the package.

"Sorry to hear that you've been catching heat," the man continued. His smile was a shark's smile. "The fighting business isn't easy. Lots of overhead to run a gym of your size. It isn't fair to you to have to fall behind on your expenses. These are trying times. But I'm sure you'll manage." The man turned back towards his waiting car. The engine was idling, the driver and the car's interior concealed by tinted windows.

"And," the stranger added, "if by chance that lost puppy comes back around here, let him know that his master would like him home."

The doors swung open. The men disappeared inside, and the car rolled off, turning around the next corner.

"Who was that?" Ryu asked.

"Your guess is as good as mine." Ken examined the thick envelope in his hand. "Should I even open this?"

"Be careful."

Ken undid the string tie and opened the flap. He found inside a heavy stack of clean flat bills.

Enough money to cover the cost of damages to the dojo.

"Maybe you shouldn't accept that," Ryu said.

"I know."

"He looked..."

"Shady? Yeah. Times ten." Ken flipped through the bills. "What are the chances that this is clean?"

"Hand it over to the police."

Ken seemed to think it over. He tied down the flap of the envelope. "You're my witness," he said. "That guy just rolled up here on his own. I don't know him."

"Are you thinking of keeping the money?"

"Look, we were just scraping by before this whole shit went down. I can't keep asking Eliza for money. It isn't fair to her."

"I see."

"I bet we can pull his license plate from the security cameras. I've got a friend in the law who might be able to help me run the numbers."

Ryu was left feeling unsettled. There were rules and protocols instilled in him by tradition. These things were important, no matter what the young upstarts thought about it. Pride and bruised egoes ran side by side with all fighting arts. Traditional rituals were invented to cultivate the spirit away from those things. Left to their own devices, pride and ego were destructive, not just to the self, but to one's environment, as Ryu's sensei had once explained to him.

It was dangerous to teach fight and combat without also teaching control and spiritual values.

The very existence of this dojo killer was proof enough of that.

Later, Ryu would meet his friend over a sushi dinner at their usual spot downtown. And Ken would come prepared to share the whole rundown.

Ryu had always found the sushi in Ken's area a bit off. Quality ingredients, but an odd flavor, and the selection quite limited. However, this particular place did things well, and sometimes, the staff would let him put in a special order. They seemed to know, perhaps by his accent, what his tastes were like.

It was a quiet night. A few other tables were occupied. Ken ordered beers for both of them. It was meant to be a celebration. They had both received tournament invites.

Ken talked for a bit about Eliza and the upcoming tournament and his plans for the dojo. The damage was being repaired, and he had decided to remodel parts of the building at the same time. The mysterious donation had been enough to cover all of that.

"Who was he?" Ryu blurted out.

"The guy with the money? My girl at Interpol looked into it. The license on his car was a cold plate. Meaning that it's tied to an empty registration file. That usually means the cops. What level - state, federal, or local - we're not really sure."

"So he's a government agent?"

"Somehow I doubt it. Maybe a corrupt one. He looked like the mafia to me, in all honesty."

"Maybe you shouldn't have taken the money."

"Well, refusing the mob is usually asking for trouble too, ya know. He wants me to forget about filing a police report against his friend. I'm not going to forget about it, but I don't need to get involved with the cops either."

"So he works for the dojo killer?"

"Yeah, most likely he does. Might be the guy's lawyer or something, going in and easing tensions with the people he pisses off every time he goes on one of his little rampages."

"You won the fight. Do you think he'll try to retaliate?"

Ken made a motion with his hand. "Hell if I know. He usually only hits a place once. But now I know his face. If he wants a rematch, I'll give him one."

This was, Ryu thought, Ken Masters in true form. His friend never backed away from confrontation. Usually, Ryu held him back, tried to coach him into stillness and calm. This time, however, his determination was uplifting. Their troublemaker had proven to be a potentially dangerous person.

"What does he look like?"

Ken whipped out his phone. "I can pull up the camera footage for you." He set the screen on the table in front of Ryu.

Tall, blond, well-built, face half hidden by a red cap.

"You'd recognize the hair from a mile away."

"You used to wear your hair long too," Ryu pointed out.

"Ha! Yeah. It's risky though. Never had it grabbed during a street brawl, and I wouldn't want to."

Ryu studied the image on the screen. "I wonder what his problem is."

"Good question. I did some poking around. You've heard of the underground? The illegal fight circuits?"

Ryu nodded. "Yes."

"Rumor has it that he came up from down there. Those circuits are rough. Like, really rough. No holds barred. Guys have been seriously hurt or killed in those places."

"I suppose that would explain his reckless nature and disregard for other people."

"Not just that. It's said that he's killed in the ring before."

"Ah."

"So, watch out for him. You're on the road a lot, Ryu. You've probably seen it all. But he's out there too. Your paths might cross one day."

That much was true. They came from different backgrounds, but they walked the same roads. Perhaps a collision was inevitable.

* * *

Tucked behind his ear, Terry Bogard kept a loose cigarette. Turkish Royal. Filtered. He had found it in a shirt sleeve more than a week ago, while packing his things, preparing for the trip. He had been making plans to see or at least talk to everyone one last time before he set out. The cigarette had tumbled out onto the floor as he had tried to fold up the shirt.

It had fallen on the floor intact. And he had stared at it for a solid minute or two, unsure of what to do with it.

In the end, he kept it in a breast pocket and brought it with him the entire bus ride over.

He didn't smoked it because he didn't smoke. But he carried a lighter. An expensive refillable, engraved with a rose. But he didn't smoke.

These things had belonged to someone else, and he didn't want to explain how he'd come to carry them.

So when Roy offered him a cigarette in the backstage parking lot - where Mac shadow boxed, Lucina filed down her nails, and Doc Louis video chatted with his grandkids - Terry simply shook his head.

"Not before a fight," he said, and then he held the lighter for Roy.

"Thanks." Roy blew out a cloud of smoke.

Together, they watched the others in silence for a bit.

Pichu had settled on Terry's shoulder and showed no interest in vacating the spot.

Roy looked like what others had said of him. Rough, volatile, quick with the verbal put-downs. But he was more worn down and jaded than Terry had expected. And he cared for his crew, even if he never said it.

"On a scale of one to infinity," Roy said to Terry, "how scared are you?"

"I'm not." He lied. A part of him was mad that Roy had guessed it exactly right.

"Remember."

"Huh?"

"Remember how you're feeling right now. It's not going to be the same again."

Terry nodded. There was, again, the need to measure up. And with it, the ever present fear of failure.

Andy had not shown any resentment that the invitation had arrived for Terry and not him, but he must have been disappointed. They'd been rivals since they were kids.

And it probably should have been Andy, not Terry, in this spot. Andy, who went to bed before midnight and got up before dawn, who had a college degree and a pro fighter wife, who followed the path of a traditional martial artist, as outlined by their teacher, and never strayed. Andy, who was in line to inherit the school, over Terry, because Terry had strayed.

One of their longest running disputes had been the battle between modern boxing gyms and the traditional schools for relevancy in the world of martial arts.

In terms of competition and commercial sport, traditional martial arts were losing favor against the modern mixed styles.

Andy didn't like it. Terry had tried to understand it from that point of view. Their old teacher had never harbored any ill will toward his once star student's choices, and yet, there was still a sense that some bridges had been burned between Terry and his former dojo.

Roy checked his phone. Then he put it away. "Buddy of mine," he said, "decided not to come this year."

"Why not?"

"Work. He's kind of the guy in charge at his job. He can't just walk away from that just for a tournament."

"So, he's not a full time fighter."

"This shit? Nah, man."

"Oh."

"Did you think it was different?"

"I guess I assumed the pros were all full time."

"Most are. Some have day jobs. Others have careers that don't involve this. It's different."

"I see."

"Were you hoping to get made and never have to work again?"

"Uh, yeah. You could say that."

"There are some people here you could talk to about that. Peach is probably the best. Mario's a good guy but the stuff that works for him don't work for anybody else. And..." Roy smoked the cigarette down to the filter. He dropped it and crushed the butt of it beneath his shoe. "Whatever you do, don't go to Falcon for advice."

Terry winced. "Why?"

Roy shook his head. "I'm not saying he's a bad guy. All I'm saying is that you don't wanna get caught up. There's business, right? Then there's Falcon's business."

"Oh."

Terry tried to sound casual. Wasn't sure how well he pulled it off. He didn't know much about Falcon. He only knew what the man was willing to show him. And that was either a little or a lot, depending on what exactly you were talking about.

At this point, they were still strangers.

In the dark, they could pretend otherwise. Falcon must have had someone else on his mind when he invited Terry up to his room.

Terry would have been lying if he'd said he hadn't been dancing with a ghost. He'd spent the last year on the road, trying to outrun the shadows that seemed to follow him out of his hometown. Driven by his own restlessness, looking for a challenge, a fight, a purpose. He'd caused a lot of trouble for people who didn't deserve it. And he didn't know how to stop.

There'd been nothing but open road in his recent memory. Distant horizons seen through the windows of long haul trucks and delivery vans. Strangers at bus stops and gas stations who offered him rides. Nights in motels, alone or with someone. They were never women who stopped for him when he stood by the roadside. They were always men. And that worked out fine for him.

They were either nice and normal, or they were sketchy as all hell. They either talked about their families and sports and the weather, or they grabbed at the back of his neck and took him by the hair and pulled his face towards their laps and made forceful suggestions that he rarely refused.

And he either rinsed his mouth out with water afterward or took long showers at the next pit stop and threw his clothes into coin laundry machines and bought new underwear.

He never wanted to admit that he may have been losing the battle with his inner demons. It was something that Andy had brought up to Mai one night when Terry slept on the couch in the living room because Joe had moved into Terry's old room and occasionally had a girl over. The walls of the trailer were thin, and their conversation had carried, even with hushed tones.

Andy had only ever taken well calculated risks. As a fighter, he entered the ring with strategies and tactics. Terry was the loose cannon who went off script and fired off like he was invincible. Driven by impulse and instinct.

It had made him a more dynamic fighter than his brother. It had earned him both fame and infamy. And now, it had earned him sponsors.

But while Andy had started to settle down into a career outside of the ring, with the prospect of a stable family life, Terry barely had a permanent address. And while Andy now had a wife who was also a long time friend, Terry had...

A long line of regrets that his skin remembered more vividly than his heart.

They were brothers, but there were some things that had to go unspoken between them. There were secrets that had to stay buried. And if it destroyed either of them, Terry hoped it was him and not Andy.

"Do you have a corner?"

Terry met Roy's eyes. "No," he admitted.

"You came alone?"

"Yeah." Terry watched Mac spar with Lucina, Doc commentating on the side. "My brother is getting married today."

"Oh. Shit."

"I was supposed to be best man. Our friend, Joe, stepped up in my place. I don't feel like I should really be here. I feel like I should be with them. He's my little brother. We were close growing up. But there were times when I wasn't there for him and I should have been. I wanted to make it up to him. And then I got the invite to this tournament. It was something I couldn't pass up. I couldn't afford to. He knew it. He said he understood. But I don't know. I just wish things were different. I didn't want to have to choose between my job and him."

"I get it."

"Yeah, so, I have to make it worth the trouble. They said they'd be watching, everyone at home. I can't let them down."

"I'll be your corner," Roy said. He nodded at the others. "We'll all be your corner."

Terry smiled. "Thanks."

* * *

Ken helped him wrap his hands in the back room before the fight. The look on Ken's face was the most serious that Ryu had seen on him in some time.

"You sure it's the same individual?"

Ken nodded. "Positive. Going by the picture, it's our guy."

Dojo killer. The thought of it brought out some deep rage from within that Ryu had thought he'd done away with. A person who acted with such casual disregard for the wellbeing of others was someone who needed to be brought down a notch or two. Out of respect for his old master and his best friend and his long held values, Ryu knew that the task fell to him.

But it didn't sit too well with him. He needed control of his emotions to fight strategically.

"He's fast," Ken said. "He hits hard. Be patient. Wait him out. Don't try to force an opening. He's reckless. He'll open himself up once he gets frustrated enough."

"I see." An instinctive fighter. Ryu set that detail aside for later use.

"Another thing. It looks like he fights harder after he takes a certain level of damage."

"Really?"

"Yeah. When he's taking a lot of hits, he seems to go into a kind of mode. Like a kill mode. He starts to go down, then he suddenly comes roaring back. It's like he needs the pain to bring it out of him. He's stronger after he bleeds."

"Ah." A man who needed to be brought near death in order to fight for his life. This was a fighter who either had no value for his own life, or one who had very little to lose. Dangerous, chaotic, but with troubled emotions that could be exploited.

Ryu had been there before, and he didn't want to go back. And in that thought lay a level of understanding between the two, strangers still, who were about to meet. Ryu knew the path of destruction the other walked. Fighting was not about simply beating the other opponent. It was about restoring peace, reducing the amount of damage in the world, by pitting those with harmful tendencies against each other, until they wore themselves out.

Hawk would fight hawk. Wolf would fight wolf. And spare the lambs.

From one chaotic heart to another, Ryu hoped for a good fight.

* * *

"Ryu is a medium heavyweight. Judging by the fact that his muscle groups seem to have muscle groups of their own, there is a zero percent chance and that he doesn't do performance enhancing supplements. Or fuck, I dunno, maybe he can holistically meditate his own arm mass into existence. He should probably meditate some shoes into existence while he's at it. Just so he doesn't step on a rusted nail and catch some tetanus. Between him and Corrin, there are going to be some happy perverts in the audience tonight."

"Do you actually have any _useful_ information, Roy?"

"Chill, Luci, sorry for looking at your girlfriend's feet. I'm just getting started. Ryu's got the face of a guy with the personality of a plank of wood. But it's dense wood. Good wood. Strong wood. You could build a fucking house with his personality. So you're up against a strong combo game and some cray mix ups. Plank of wood has decent aerials. He will pressure your shield, and he will punish your mistakes. He moves slow, but he's dangerous at close range. At a distance, you'll have to watch out for the Hadoken projectile. That _ki_ fireball thing. He will most likely fight you on the ground. Don't leave yourself open. Woody's gonna try and KO you, but he's gotta wear you down first."

"Thanks, Roy. I think we all read the same wiki article."

"You want more, Luci? I can give you more. He's proficient in ka-ra-tay! So judo his ass. Wood boy's grab game is weak as fuck."

"Stop calling him that, Roy. You should show some respect to your opponents."

"Oh? Is this the same little miss cutthroat from earlier? The ends justify the means. _You_ were the one sayin' that."

"You can win without disrespecting."

"It's like a ring name, Luci. Everyone's got one. Woody's officially the 'Eternal Wanderer,' and that's boring as fuck. Whereas Mac is the certified 'Bruiser from the Bronx.' See the contrast? It's punchy. It kicks. It's got alliteration. And you are...actually, yours is kinda heavy, girl, not gonna lie."

"I know."

"I wonder what they'd call me."

"Hmph. I've got a pretty good guess."

"And in Terry we've got 'El Lobo Legendario!' Or as Falcon calls him, 'Cariño Fatal.' Ha! You didn't think I knew about that, huh? Haha... What? It's a compliment! You look like someone just dropped some spicy curry on your ass. Save it for the Captain! He'd love to see your cheeks light up like that. If you hafta fight him too, just throw off your shirt an' blow him a kiss. I wanna see him try an' hide a raging hard-on in all that spandex!"

* * *

Ken pulled his gloves on for him. Then he touched their foreheads together. "You've got this!"

Ryu nodded at his friend. "Thanks."

Remembered their old master. Fought for his soul to be calm.

The scriptures said, 'The flags are still. No wind blows. It is Man's heart that lies in tumult.'

* * *

"Roy, I know you're on a roll, but the pager's going off."

"That means we're on, team. Let's go fuck some shit up."

* * *

_been trying hard not to get into trouble  
_ _but i, i've got a war in my mind_


End file.
